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THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/balladsofcheechaOOserv 


Ballads  of  a  Chcechako 


Ballads  of  a  Cheechako 


BY 


ROBERT  W.  SERVICE 

Author  of 
"The  Spell  of  the  Yukon" 


"^^ 


PUBLISHERS 

BARSE  &  HOPKINS 

NEW  YORK,  N.  Y.  NEWARK,  N.  J. 


Copyright,  1909, 

by 

BARSE  &  HOPKINS 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

TO  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HIGH  NORTH.,   i? 

My  rhymes  are  rough,  and  often  in  my  rhyming 

MEN  OF  THE  HIGH  NORTH 12 

Men  of  the  High  North,  the  wild  sky  is  blazing; 

THE     BALLAD     OF     THE     NORTHERN 
LIGHTS 15 

One  of  the   Down  and    Out — that's  me.      Stare   at 
me  well,  ay,  stare! 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  FOX  SKIN  29 

There  was  Claw-fingered  Kitty  and  Windy  Ike  living 
the  life  of  shame, 

THE  BALLAD  OF  PIOUS  PETE 39 

1  tried  to  refine  that  neighbor  of  mine,  honest  to  God, 
I  did. 

THE  BALLAD   OF   BLASPHEMOUS  BILL  45 

I  took  a  contract  to  bury  the  body  of  blasphemous 
Bill  MacKie, 

THE  BALLAD  OF  ONE-EYED  MIKE. ...  51 

This  is  the  tale  that  was  told  to  me  by  the  man  with 
the  crystal  eye, 

7 


1284619 


CONTENTS 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAND 56 

'Twas  up  in  a  land  long  famed  for  gold,  where  women 
were  far  and  rare, 


THE  BALLAD  OF  HARD-LUCK  HENRY. .  65 

Novv   wouldn't  you  expect  to  find  a  man  an  awful 
crank 


THE  MAN  FROM  ELDORADO 70 

He's  the  man  from  Eldorado,  and  he's  just  arrived 
in  town, 

MY  FRIENDS 78 

The  man  above  was  a  murderer,  the  man  below  was 
a  thief; 

THE  PROSPECTOR 82 

I  strolled  up  old  Bonanza,  where  I  staked  in  ninety- 
eight, 

THE  BLACK  SHEEP 88 

Hark  to  the  ewe  that  bore  him: 

THE  TELEGRAPH  OPERATOR 93 

I  will  not  wash  my  face; 

THE  WOOD-CUTTER 97 

The  sky  is  like  an  envelope, 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  MOUTH-ORGAN. . . .  loi 

I'm  a  homely  little  bit  of  tin  and  bone; 

8 


CONTENTS 

THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY-EIGHT 105 

Gold!     We    leapt    from    our    benches.      Gold!     We 
sprang  from  our  stools. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  GUM-BOOT  BEN 114 

He  was  an  old  prospector  with  a  vision  bleared  and 
dim. 

CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE.  .119 

In  the  little  Crimson  Manual  it's  written  plain  and 
clear 

LOST 129 

"Black  is  the  sky,  but  the  land  is  white — 

L'ENVOI 136 

We  talked  of  yesteryears,  of  trails  and  treasure. 


TO  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HIGH  NORTH 

My  rhymes  are  rough,  and  often  in  my  rhyming 
Fve  drifted,  silver-sailed,  on  seas  of  dream, 

Hearing  afar  the  bells  of  Elfland  chiming, 
Seeing  the  groves  of  Arcadie  agleam. 

I  was  the  thrall  of  Beauty  that  rejoices 
From  peak  snow-diademed  to  regal  star; 

Yet  to  mine  aerie  ever  pierced  the  voices, 

The  pregnant  voices  of  the  Things  That  Are. 

The  Here,  the  Now,  the  vast  Forlorn  around  us; 

The  gold-delirium,  the  ferine  strife; 
The  lusts  that  lure  us  on,  the  hates  that  hound  us; 

Our  red  rags  in  the  patch-work  quilt  of  Life. 

The  nameless  men  who  nameless  rivers  travel. 
And  in  strange  valleys  greet  strange  deaths  alone; 

The  grim,  intrepid  ones  who  would  unravel 
The  mysteries  that  shroud  the  Polar  Zone. 

These  will  I  sing,  and  if  one  of  you  linger 
Over  my  pages  in  the  Long,  Long  Night, 

And  on  some  lone  line  lay  a  calloused  finger, 
Saying:   *' It^s  human-true — it  hits  me  right;** 

Then  will  I  count  this  loving  toil  well  spent; 

Then  will  I  dream  awhile — content,  content. 

II 


MEN  OF  THE  HIGH  NORTH 


Men  of  the  High  North,  the  wild  sky  is  blazing} 

Islands  of  opal  float  on  silver  seas; 
Swift  splendors  kindle,  barbaric,  amazing; 

Pale  ports  of  amber,  golden  argosies. 
Ringed  all  around  us  the  proud  peaks  are  glowing; 

Fierce  chiefs  in  council,  their  wigwam  the  sky; 
Far,  far  below  us  the  big  Yukon  flowing, 

Like  threaded  quicksilver,  gleams  to  the  eye. 

Men  of  the  High  North,  you  who  have  known  it; 

You  in  whose  hearts  its  splendors  have  abode; 
Can  you  renounce  it,  can  you  disown  it? 

Can  you  forget  it,  its  glory  and  its  goad? 
Where  is  the  hardship,  where  is  the  pain  of  it? 

Lost  in  the  limbo  of  things  you've  forgot; 
Only  remain  the  guerdon  and  gain  of  it; 

Zest  of  the  foray,  and  God,  how  you  fought! 

12 


MEN  OF  THE  HIGH  NORTH 

You  who  have  made  good,  you  foreign  faring; 

You  money  magic  to  far  lands  has  whirled; 
Can  you  forget  those  days  of  vast  daring, 

There  with  your  soul  on  the  Top  o'  the  World? 
Nights  when  no  peril  could  keep  you  awake  on 

Spruce  boughs   you  spread    for   your  couch    in 
the  snow; 
Taste  all  your  feasts  like  the  beans  and  the  bacon 

Fried  at  the  camp-fire  at  forty  below? 


Can  you  remember  your  huskies  all  going, 

Barking  with  joy  and  their  brushes  in  air; 
You  in  your  parka,  glad-eyed  and  glowing, 

Monarch,  your  subjects  the  wolf  and  the  bear? 
Monarch,   your  kingdom  unravisht  and  gleaming; 

Mountains  your  throne,  and  a  river  your  car; 
Crash  of  a  bull  moose  to  rouse  you  from  dreaming; 

Forest  your  couch,  and  your  candle  a  star. 


You  who  this  faint  day  the  High  North  is  luring 

Unto  her  vastness,  taintlessly  sweet; 
You  who  are  steel-braced,  straight-lipped,  enduring, 

Dreadless  in  danger  and  dire  in  defeat: 
Honor  the  High  North  ever  and  ever, 

Whether  she  crown  you,  or  whether  she  slay; 
Suffer  her  fury,  cherish  and  love  her — 

He  who  would  rule  he  must  learn  to  obey. 


MEN  OF  THE  HIGH  NORTH 

Men  of  the  High  North,  fierce  mountains  love  you; 

Proud  rivers  leap  when  you  ride  on  their  breast. 
See,  the  austere  sky,  pensive  above  you, 

Dons  all  her  jewels  to  smile  on  your  rest. 
Children  of  Freedom,  scornful  of  frontiers, 

We  who  are  weaklings  honor  your  worth. 
Lords  of  the  wilderness.  Princes  of  Pioneers, 

Let's   have   a   rouse   that  will  ring  round  the 
earth. 


14 


THE    BALLAD    OF    THE    NORTHERN 
LIGHTS 

One  of  the  Down  and  Out — that's  me.  Stare  at 
me  well,  ay,  stare! 

Stare  and  shrink — say!  you  wouldn't  think  that 
I  was  a  millionaire. 

Look  at  my  face,  it's  crimped  and  gouged — one  of 
them  death-mask  things; 

Don't  seem  the  sort  of  man,  do  I,  as  might  be  the 
pal  of  kings? 

Slouching  along  in  smelly  rags,  a  bleary-eyed,  no- 
good  bum; 

A  knight  of  the  hollow  needle,  pard,  spewed  from 
the  sodden  slum. 

Look  me  all  over  from  head  to  foot;  how  much 
would  you  think  I  was  worth? 

A  dollar?  a  dime?  a  nickel?  Why,  Fm  the  wealth- 
iest man  on  earth. 

No,  don't  you  think  that  I'm  off  my  base.    You'll 

sing  a  different  tune 
If  only  you'll  let  me  spin  my  yarn.     Come  over  to 

this  saloon; 

15 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

Wet  my  throat — it's  as  dry  as  chalk,  and  seeing  as 

how  it's  you, 
I'll  tell  the  tale  of  a  Northern  trail,  and  so  help  me 

God,  it's  true. 
I'll  tell  of  the  howling  wilderness  and  the  haggard 

Arctic  heights. 
Of  a  reckless  vow  that  I  made,  and  how  /  staked 

the  Northern  Lights. 

Remember  the  year  of  the  Big  Stampede  and  the 

trail  of  Ninety-eight, 
When  the  eyes  of  the  world  were  turned  to  the 

North,  and  the  hearts  of  men  elate; 
Hearts  of  the  old  dare-devil  breed  thrilled  at  the 

wondrous  strike, 
And  to  every  man  who  could  hold  a  pan  came  the 

message,  "Up  and  hike." 
Well,  I  was  there  with  the  best  of  them,  and  I  knew 

I  would  not  fail. 
You  wouldn't  believe  it  to  see  me  now;    but  wait 

till  you've  heard  my  tale. 

You've  read  of  the  trail  of  Ninety-eight,  but  its 

woe  no  man  may  tell; 
It  was  all  of  a  piece  and  a  whole  yard  wide,  and  the 

name  of  the  brand  was  "Hell." 
We  heard  the  call  and  we  staked  our  all;  we  were 

plungers  playing  blind, 

i6 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHT^: 

And  no  man  cared  how  his  neighbor  fared,  and  no 

,-nan  looked  behind; 
For  a  ruthless  greed  was  born  of  need,  and  the 

weakling  went  to  the  wall. 
And  a  curse  might  avail  where  a  prayer  would  fail, 

and  the  gold  lust  crazed  us  all. 


Bold  were  we,  and  they  called  us  three  the  "Unholy 

Trinity; " 
There  was  Ole  Olson,  the  sailor  Swede,  and  the 

Dago  Kid  and  me. 
We  were  the  discards  of  the  pack,  the  foreloopers 

of  Unrest, 
Reckless  spirits  of  fierce  revolt  in  the  ferment  of 

the  West. 
We  were  bound  to  win  and  we  revelled  in  the  hard- 
ships of  the  way. 
We  staked  our  ground  and  our  hopes  were  crowned, 

and  we  hoisted  out  the  pay. 
We  were  rich  in  a  day  beyond  our  dreams,  it  was 

gold  from  the  grass-roots  down; 
But  we  weren't  used  to  such  sudden  wealth,  and 

there  was  the  siren  town. 
We  were   crude   and   careless   frontiersmen,   with 

much  in  us  of  the  beast; 
We  could  bear  the  famine  worthily,  but  we  lost  our 

heads  at  the  feast. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

The  town  looked  mighty  bright  to  us,  with  a  bunch 

of  dust  to  spend, 
And  nothing  was  half  too  good  them  days,  and 

everyone  was  our  friend. 
Wining  meant  more  than  mining  then,  and  life  was 

a  dizzy  whirl. 
Gambling  and  dropping  chunks  of  gold  down  the 

neck  of  a  dance-hall  girl; 
Till  we  went  clean  mad,  it  seems  to  me,  and  we 

squandered  our  last  poke, 
And  we  sold  our  claim,  and  we  found  ourselves  one 

bitter  morning — broke. 


The  Dago  Kid  he  dreamed  a  dream  of  his  mother's 

aunt  who  died — 
In  the  dawn-light  dim  she  came  to  him,  and  she 

stood  by  his  bedside. 
And  she  said:    "Go  forth  to  the  highest  North  till 

a  lonely  trail  ye  find; 
Follow  it  far  and  trust  your  star,  and  fortune  will 

be  kind." 
But  I  jeered  at  him,  and  then  there  came  the  Sailor 

Swede  to  me, 
And  he  said:    "I  dreamed  of  my  sister's  son,  who 

croaked  at  the  age  of  three. 
From  the  herded  dead  he  sneaked  and  said :  '  Seek 

you  an  Arctic  trail; 

l8 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

'Tis  pale  and  grim  by  the  Polar  rim,  but  seek  and 

ye  shall  not  fail.' '' 
And  lo!  that  night  I  too  did  dream  of  my  mother's 

sister's  son, 
And  he  said  to  me:    "By  the  Arctic  Sea  there's  a 

treasure  to  be  won. 
Follow  and  follow  a  lone  moose  trail,  till  you  come 

to  a  valley  grim, 
On  the  slope  of  the  lonely  watershed  that  borders 

the  Polar  brim." 
Then  I  woke  my  pals,  and  soft  we  swore  by  the 

mystic  Silver  Flail, 
'Twas  the  hand  of  Fate,  and  to-morrow  straight 

we  would  seek  the  lone  moose  trail. 


We  watched  the  groaning  ice  wrench  free,  crash  on 

with  a  hollow  din; 
Men  of  the  wilderness   were    we,    freed  from  the 

taint  of  sin. 
The  mighty  river  snatched  us  up  and  it  bore  us 

swift  along; 
The  days  were  bright,  and  the  morning  light  was 

sweet  with  jewelled  song. 
We  poled  and  lined  up  nameless  streams,  portaged 

o'er  hill  and  plain; 
We  ^urnt  our  boat  to  save  the  nails,  and  built  our 

boat  again; 

19 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

We  guessed  and  groped,  North,  ever  North,  with 

many  a  twist  and  turn; 
We  saw  ablaze  in  the  deathless  days  the  splendid 

sunsets  burn. 
O'er  soundless  lakes  where  the  grayling  makes  a 

rush  at  the  clumsy  fly; 
By  bluffs  so   steep   that  the  hard-hit  sheep  falls 

sheer  from  out  the  sky; 
By  lilied  pools  where  the  bull  moose  cools  and  wal- 
lows in  huge  content; 
By  rocky  lairs  where  the  pig-eyed  bears  peered  at 

our  tiny  tent. 
Through    the    black    canyon's    angry    foam    we 

hurled  to  dreamy  bars, 
And  round  in  a  ring  the  dog-nosed  peaks  bayed  to 

the  mocking  stars. 
Spring  and  summer  and  autumn  went;    the  sky 

had  a  tallow  gleam, 
Yet  North  and  ever  North  we  pressed  to  the  land 

of  our  Golden  Dream. 


So  we  came  at  last  to  a  tundra  vast  and  dark  and 

grim  and  lone; 
And  there  was  the  little  lone  moose  trail,  and  we 

knew  it  for  our  own. 
By  muskeg  hollow  and  nigger-head  it  wandered 

endlessly; 

20 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

Sorry  of  heart  and  sore  of  foot,  weary  men  were 

we. 
The  short-lived  sun  had  a  leaden  glare  and  the 

darkness  came  too  soon, 
And  stationed  there  with  a  solemn  stare  was  the 

pinched,  anaemic  moon. 
Silence  and  silvern  solitude  till  it  made  you  dumbly 

shrink, 
And  you  thought  to  hear  with  an  outward  ear  the 

things  you  thought  to  think. 


Oh,  it  was  wild  and  weird  and  wan,  and  ever  in 

camp  o'  nights 
We  would  watch  and  watch  the  silver  dance  of  the 

mystic  Northern  Lights. 
And  soft  they  danced  from  the  Polar  sky  and  swept 

in  primrose  haze; 
And  swift  they  pranced  with  their  silver  feet,  and 

pierced  with  a  blinding  blaze. 
They  danced  a  cotillion  in  the  sky;   they  were  rose 

and  silver  shod ; 
It  was  not  good  for  the  eyes  of  man — 'twas  a  sight 

for  the  eyes  of  God. 
It  made  us  mad  and  strange  and  sad,  and  the  gold 

whereof  we  dreamed 
Was  all  forgot,  and  our  only  thought  was  of  the 

lights  that  gleamed. 

21 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

Oh,  the  tundra  sponge  it  was  golden  brown,  and 
some  was  a  bright  blood-red; 

And  the  reindeer  moss  gleamed  here  and  there  like 
the  tombstones  of  the  dead. 

And  in  and  out  and  around  about  the  little  trail 
ran  clear, 

And  we  hated  it  with  a  deadly  hate  and  we  feared 
with  a  deadly  fear. 

And  the  skies  of  night  were  alive  with  light,  with  a 
throbbing,  thrilling  flame; 

Amber  and  rose  and  violet,  opal  and  gold  it  came. 

It  swept  the  sky  like  a  giant  scythe,  it  quivered 
back  to  a  wedge; 

Argently  bright,  it  cleft  the  night  with  a  wavy 
golden  edge. 

Pennants  of  silver  waved  and  streamed,  lazy  ban- 
ners unfurled; 

Sudden  splendors  of  sabres  gleamed,  lightning 
javelins  were  hurled. 

There  in  our  awe  we  crouched  and  saw  with  our 
wild,  uplifted  eyes 

Charge  and  retire  the  hosts  of  fire  in  the  battle- 
field of  the  skies. 


But  all  things  come  to  an  end  at  last,  and  the 

muskeg  melted  away. 
And  frowning  down  to  bar  our  path  a  muddle  of 

mountains  lay. 

22 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

And  a  gorge  sheered  up  in  granite  walls,  and  the 

moose  trail  crept  betwixt; 
'Twas  as  if  the  earth  had  gaped  too  far  and  her 

stony  jaws  were  fixt. 
Then  the  winter  fell  with  a  sudden  swoop,  and  the 

heavy  clouds  sagged  low, 
And  earth  and  sky  were  blotted  out  in  a  whirl  of 

driving  snow. 

We  were  climbing  up  a  glacier  in  the  neck  of  a 

mountain  pass, 
When  the  Dago  Kid  slipped  down  and  fell  into  a 

deep  crevasse. 
When  we  got  him  out  one  leg  hung  limp,  and  his 

brow  was  wreathed  with  pain. 
And  he  says:    "'Tis  badly  broken,  boys,  and  I'll 

never  walk  again. 
It's  death  for  all  if  ye  linger  here,  and  that's  no 

cursed  lie; 
Go  on,  go  on  while  the  trail  is  good,  and  leave  me 

down  to  die." 
He  raved  and  swore,  but  we  tended  him  with  our 

uncouth,  clumsy  care. 
The  camp-fire  gleamed  and  he  gazed  and  dreamed 

with  a  fixed  and  curious  stare. 
Then  all  at  once  he  grabbed  my  gun  and  ha  put 

it  to  his  head, 
And  he  says:  "I'll  fix  it  for  you,  boys" — them  are 

the  words  he  said. 

23 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

So  we  sewed  him  up  in  a  canvas  sack  and  we  slung 

him  to  a  tree; 
And  the  stars  like  needles  stabbed  our  eyes,  and 

woeful  men  were  we. 
And  on  we  went  on  our  woeful  way,  wrapped  in  a 

daze  of  dream, 
And   the   Northern   Lights  in   the  crystal  nights 

came  forth  with  a  mystic  gleam. 
They  danced  and  they  danced  the  devil-dance  over 

the  naked  snow; 
And  soft  they  rolled  like  a  tide  upshoaled  with  a 

ceaseless  ebb  and  flow. 
They  rippled  green  with  a  wondrous  sheen,  they 

fluttered  out  like  a  fan; 
They  spread  with  a  blaze  of  rose-pink  rays  never 

yet  seen  of  man. 
They  writhed  like  a  brood  of  angry  snakes,  hissing 

and  sulphur  pale; 
Then  swift  they  changed  to  a  dragon  vast,  lashing 

a  cloven  tail. 
It  seemed  to  us,  as  we  gazed  aloft  with  an  ever- 
lasting stare, 
The  sky  was  a  pit  of  bale  and  dread,  and  a  monster 

revelled  there. 

We  climbed  the  rise  of  a  hog-back  range  that  was 

desolate  and  drear, 
When  the  Sailor  Swede  had  a  crazy  fit,  and  he  got 

to  talking  queer. 

24 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

He  talked  of  his  home  in  Oregon  and  the  peach 

trees  all  in  bloom, 
<^nd  the  fern  head -high,  and  the  topaz  sky,  and  the 

forest's  scented  gloom. 
He  talked  of  the  sins  of  his  misspent  life,  and  then 

he  seemed  to  brood, 
And  I  watched  him  there  like  a  fox  a  hare,  for  I 

knew  it  was  not  good. 
And  sure  enough    in  the  dim  dawn-light  I  missed 

him  from  the  tent, 
And  a  fresh  trail  broke  through  the  crusted  snow, 

and  I  knew  not  where  it  went. 
But  I  followed  it  o'er  the  seamless  waste,  and  I 

found  him  at  shut  of  day, 
Naked    there  as  a  new-born  babe — so  I  left  him 

where  he  lay. 

Day  after  day  was  sinister,  and  I  fought  fierce-eyed 

despair. 
And  I  clung  to  life,  and  I  struggled  on,  I  knew  not 

why  nor  where. 
I  packed  my  grub  in  short  relays,  and  I  cowered 

down  in  my  tent. 
And  the  world  around  was  purged  of  sound  like  a 

frozen  continent. 
Day  after  day  was  da'^<  as  death,  but  ever  and 

ever  at  nights. 
With  a  brilliancy  that  grew  and  grew,  blazed  up 

the  Northern  Lights. 

25 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

They  rolled  around  with  a  soundless  sound  like 

softly  bruised  silk; 
They  poured  into  the  bowl  of  the  sky  with  the 

gentle  flow  of  milk. 
In   eager,    pulsing   violet   their  wheeling   chariots 

came, 
Or  they  poised  above  the  Polar  rim  like  a  coronal 

of  flame. 
From  depths  of  darkness  fathomless  their  lancing 

rays  were  hurled, 
Like  the  all-combining  search-lights  of  the  navies 

of  the  world. 
There  on  the  roof-pole  of  the  world  as  one  be- 
witched I  gazed, 
And  howled  and  grovelled  like  a  beast  as  the  awful 

splendors  blazed. 
My  eyes  were  seared,  yet  thralled  I  peered  through 

the  parka  hood  nigh  blind; 
But  I  staggered  on  to  the  lights  that  shone,  and 

never  I  looked  behind. 

There  is  a  mountain  round  and   low  that  lies  by 

the  Polar  rim. 
And  I  climbed  its  height  in  a  whirl  of  light,  and  I 

peered  o'er  its  jagged  brim; 
And  there  in  a  crater  decn  and  vast,  ungained, 

unguessed  of  men, 
The  mystery  of  the  Arctic  world  was  flashed  into 

my  ken. 

26 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

For  there  these  poor  dim  eyes  of  mine  beheld  the 

sight  of  sights — 
That  hollow  ring  was  the  source  and  spring  of  the 

mystic  Northern  Lights. 

Then  I  staked  that  place  from  crown  to  base,  and 

I  hit  the  homeward  trail. 
Ah,  God!  it  was  good,  though  my  eyes  were  blurred, 

and  I  crawled  Uke  a  sickly  snail. 
Vn  that  vast  white   world    where   the   silent  sky 

communes  with  the  silent  snow, 
In  hunger  and  cold  and  misery  I  wandered  to  and 

fro. 
But  the  Lord  took  pity  on  my  pain,  and  He  led  me 

to  the  sea, 
And  some  ice-bound  whalers  heard  my  moan,  and 

they  fed  and  sheltered  me. 
They  fed  the  feeble  scarecrow  thing  that  stumbled 

out  of  the  wild 
With  the  ravaged  face  of  a  mask  of  death  and  the 

wandering  wits  of  a  child — 
A  craven,  cowering  bag  of  bones  that  once  had  been 

a  man. 
They  tended  me  and  they  brought  me  back  to  the 

world,  and  here  I  am. 

Some  say  that  the  Northern  Lights  are  the  glare 
of  the  Arctic  ice  and  snow; 

27 


BALLAD  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 

And  some  that  it's  electricity,  and  nobody  seems 

to  know. 
But  I'll  tell  you  now — and  if  I  lie,  may  my  lips  be 

stricken  dumb — 
It's  a  mine,  a  mine  of  the  precious  stuff  that  men 

call  radium. 
It's  a  million  dollars  a  pound,  they  say,  and  there's 

tons  and  tons  in  sight. 
You  can  see  it  gleam  in  a  golden  stream  in  the 

solitudes  of  night. 
And  it's  mine,  all  mine — and  say!    if  you  have  a 

hundred  plunks  to  spare, 
I'll  let  you  have  the  chance  of  your  life,  I'll  sell 

you  a  quarter  share. 
You  turn  it  down?     Well,  I'll  make  it  ten.  seeing 

as  you  are  my  friend. 
Nothing  doing?     Say!    don't  be  hard — have  you 

got  a  dollar  to  lend? 
Just  a  dollar  to  help  me  out,  I  know  you'll  treat  me 

white ; 
I'll  do  as  much  for   you  some  day     .     .     .     God 

bless  you,  sir;  good-night. 


28 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  FOX 
SKIN 

There  was  Claw-fingered  Kitty  and  Windy  Ike 

living  the  life  of  shame, 
When  unto  them  in  the  Long,  Long  Night  came 

the  man-who-had-no-name; 
Bearing  his  prize  of  a  black  fox  pelt,  out  of  the  Wild 

he  came. 

His  cheeks  were  blanched  as  the  flume-head  foam 
when  the  brown  spring  freshets  flow; 

Deep  in  their  dark,  sin-calcined  pits  were  his  sombre 
eyes  aglow; 

They  knew  him  far  for  the  fitful  man  who  spat 
forth  blood  on  the  snow. 

"  Did  ever  you  see  such  a  skin?  "  quoth  he;  "  there's 

nought  in  the  world  so  fine — 
Such  fullness  of  fur  as  black  as  the  night,  such 

lustre,  such  size,  such  shine; 
It's  life  to  a  one-lunged  man  like  me;  it's  London, 

it's  women,  it's  wine. 

29 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  FOX  SKIN 

"The    Moose-hides    called   it   the   devil-fox,   and 

swore  that  no  man  could  kill; 
That  he  who  hunted  it,  soon  or  late,  must  surely 

suffer  some  ill; 
But  I  laughed  at  them  and  their  old  squaw-tales. 

Hal  Ha!  I'm  laughing  still. 

"For  look  ye,  the  skin — it's  as  smooth  as  sin,  and 

black  as  the  core  of  the  Pit. 
By  gun  or  by  trap,  whatever  the  hap,  I  swore  I 

would  capture  it; 
By  star  and  by  star  afield  and  afar,  I  hunted  and 

would  not  quit. 

"For  the  devil-fox,  it  was  swift  and  sly,  and  it 

seemed  to  fleer  at  me; 
I   would  wake  in   fright  by   the   camp-fire  light, 

hearing  its  evil  glee; 
Into  my  dream  its    eyes   would    gleam,  and    its 

shadow  would  I  see. 


"It  sniffed  and  ran   from  the  ptarmigan  I   had 

poisoned  to  excess; 
Unharmed  it  sped  from  my  wrathful  lead  ('twas 

as  if  I  shot  by  guess) ; 
Yet  it  came  by  night  in  the  stark   moonlight  to 

mock  at  my  weariness. 

30 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  FOX  SKIN 

*'I  tracked  it  up  where  the  mountains  hunch  like 

the  vertebrae  of  the  world ; 
I  tracked  it  down  to  the  death-still  pits  where  the 

avalanche  is  hurled; 
From  the  glooms  to  the  sacerdotal  snows,  where  the 

carded  clouds  are  curled. 


"From  the  vastitudes  where  the  world  protrudes 
through  clouds  like  seas  up-shoaled, 

I  held  its  track  till  it  led  me  back  to  the  land  I  had 
left  of  old— 

The  land  I  had  looted  many  moons.  I  was  weary 
and  sick  and  cold. 

"  I  was  sick,  soul-sick,  of  the  futile  chase,  and  there 

and  then  I  swore 
The  foul  fiend  fox  might  scathless  go,  for  I  would 

hunt  no  more; 
Then  I  rubbed  mine  eyes  in  a  vast   surprise — it 

stood  by  my  cabin  door. 

"A   rifle   raised  in  the  wraith-like  gloom,  and  a 

vengeful  shot  that  sped ; 
A  howl  that  would  thrill  a  cream-faced  corpse — 

and  the  demon  fox  lay  dead.     .     .     . 
Yet  there  was  never  a  sign  of  wound,  and  never  a 

drop  he  bled. 

31 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  FOX  SKIN 

"So  that  was  the  end  of  the  great  black  fox,  and 

here  is  the  prize  I've  won; 
And  now  for  a  drink  to  cheer  me  up — I've  mushed 

since  the  early  sun; 
We'll  drink  a  toast  to  the  sorry  ghost  of  the  fox 

whose  race  is  run." 


II. 

Now  Claw-fingered  Kitty  and  Windy  Ike,  bad  as 

the  worst  were  they; 
In  their  road-house  down  by  the  river-trail  they 

waited  and  watched  for  prey; 
With  wine  and  song  they  joyed  night  long,  and 

they  slept  like  swine  by  day. 

For  things  were  done  in  the  Midnight  Sun  that  n(r 

tongue  will  ever  tell; 
And  men  there  be  who  walk  earth-free,  but  whose 

names  are  writ  in  hell — 
Are  writ  in  flames  with  the  guilty  names  of  Fournier 

and  Labelle. 

Put  not  your  trust  in  a  poke  of  dust  would  ye  sleep 

the  sleep  of  sin; 
For  there  be  those  who  would  rob  your  clothes  ere 

yet  the  dawn  comes  in; 
And  a  prize  likewise  in  a  woman's  eyes  is  a  peerless 

black  fox  skin. 

32 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  FOX  SKIN 

Put  your  faith  in  the  mountain  cat  if  you  lie  within 

his  lair; 
Trust  the  fangs  of  the  mother-wolf,  and  the  claws 

of  the  lead-ripped  bear; 
But  oh,  of  the  wiles  and  the  gold-tooth  smiles  of  a 

dance-hall  wench  beware! 

Wherefore  it  was  beyond  all  laws  that  lusts  of  man 

restrain, 
A  man  drank  deep  and  sank  to  sleep  never  to  wake 

again; 
And  the  Yukon  swallowed  through  a  hole  the  cold 

corpse  of  the  slain. 

III. 

The  black  fox  skin  a  shadow  cast  from  the  roof  nigh 

to  the  floor; 
And  sleek  it  seemed  and  soft  it  gleamed,  and  the 

woman  stroked  it  o'er; 
And  the  man  stood  by  with  a  brooding  eye,  and 

gnashed  his  teeth  and  swore. 

When  thieves  and  thugs  fall  out  and  fight  there's 

fell  arrears  to  pay; 
And  soon  or  late  sin  meets  its  fate,  and  so  it  fell 

one  day 
That  Claw-fingered  Kitty  and  Windy  Ike  fanged 

up  like  dogs  at  bay. 

33 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  FOX  SKIN 

"The  skin  is  mine,  all  mine,"  she  cried;  "I  did  the 
deed  alone." 

"It's  share  and  share  with  a  guilt-yoked  pair,"  he 
hissed  in  a  pregnant  tone; 

And  so  they  snarled  like  malamutes  over  a  mil- 
dewed bone. 


And  so  they  fought,  by  fear  untaught,  till  haply  it 

befell 
One  dawn  of  day  she  slipped  away  to  Dawson  town 

to  sell 
The  fruit  of  sin,  this  black  fox  skin  that  had  made 

their  lives  a  hell. 

She  slipped  away  as  still  he  lay,  she  clutched  the 

wondrous  fur; 
Her  pulses  beat,  her  foot  was  fleet,  her  fear  was  as 

a  spur; 
She  laughed  with  glee,  she  did  not  see  him  rise 

and  follow  her. 


The  bluflfs  uprear  and  grimly  peer  far  over  Dawson 

town; 
They  see  its  lights  a  blaze  o'  nights  and  harshly 

they  look  down; 
They  mock  the  plan  and  plot  of  man  with  grim, 

ironic  frown. 

34 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  POX  SKIN 

The  trail  was  steep;  'twas  at  the  time  when  swiftly 

sinks  the  snow; 
All  honey-combed,  the  river  ice  was  rotting  down 

below ; 
The  river  chafed  beneath  its  rind  with  mauiy  a 

mighty  throe. 

And  up  the  swift  and  oozy  drift  a  woman  climbed 

in  fear, 
Clutching  to  her  a  black  fox  fur  as  if  she  held  it 

dear; 
And  hard  she  pressed  it  to  her  breast — then  Windy 

Ike  drew  near. 

She  made  no  moan — her  heart  was  stone — she  read 

his  smiling  face, 
And  like  a  dream  flashed  all  her  life's  dark  horror 

and  disgrace; 
A  moment  only — with  a  snarl  he  hurled  her  into 

space. 

She  rolled  for  nigh  an  hundred  feet;  she  bounded 

Uke  a  ball; 
From  crag  to  crag  she  carromed  down  through  snow 

and  timber  fall;     .     .     . 
A  hole  gaped  in  the  river  ice;   the  spray  flashed — 

that  was  all. 

35 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  FOX  SKIN 

A  bird  sang  for  the  joy  of  spring,  so  piercing  sweet 

and  frail; 
And  blinding  bright  the  land  was  dight  in  gay  and 

glittering  mail; 
And  with  a  wondrous  black  fox  skin  a  man  slid 

down  the  trail. 


IV. 

A  wedge-faced  man  there  was  who  ran  along  the 

river  bank, 
Who  stumbled  through  each  drift  and  slough,  and 

ever  slipped  and  sank. 
And    ever   cursed    his    Maker's    name,    and    ever 

"hooch"  he  drank. 

He  travelled  like  a  hunted  thing,  hard  harried,  sore 
distrest; 

The  old  grandmother  moon  crept  out  from  her 
cloud-quilted  nest; 

The  aged  mountains  mocked  at  him  in  their  prim- 
eval rest. 

Grim  shadows  diapered   the  snow;    the  air  was 

strangely  mild; 
The   valley's   girth    was   dumb   with    mirth,    the 

laughter  of  the  wild ; 
The  still,  sardonic  laughter  of  an  ogre  o'er  a  child. 

36 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  FOX  SKIN 

The  river  writhed  beneath  tliv,  ice;   it  groaned  like 

one  in  pain, 
And  yawning  chasms  opened  wide,  and  closed  and 

yawned  again; 
And  sheets  of  silver  heaved  on  high  until  they  split 

in  twain 

From  out  the  road-house  by  the  trail  they  saw  a 

man  afar 
Make  for  the  narrow  river-reach  where  the  swift 

cross-currents  are; 
Where,  frail  and  worn,  the  ice  is  torn  and  the  angry 

waters  jar. 

But  they  did  not  see  him  crash  and  sink  into  the 

icy  flow; 
They  did  not  see  him  clinging  there,  gripped  by 

the  undertow. 
Clawing  with  bleeding  finger-nails  at  the   jagged 

ice  and  snow. 


They  found  a  note  beside  the  hole  where  he  had 

stumbled  in: 
"Here  met  his  fate  by  evil  luck  a  man  who  lived 

in  sin, 
And  to  the  one  who  loves  me  least  I  leave  this 

black  fox  skin." 

37 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BLACK  FOX  SKIN 

And  strange  it  is;  for,  though  they  searched  the 

river  all  around, 
No  trace  or  sign  of  black  fox  skin  was  ever  after 

found ; 
Though  one  man  said  he  saw  the  tread  of  hoofs 

deep  in  the  ground. 


3S 


THE  BALLAD  OF  PIOUS  PETE 

''The  North  has  got  him." — Yukonism. 

I  tried  to  refine  that  neighbor  of  mine,  honest  to 

God,  I  did. 
I  grieved  for  his  fate,  and  early  and  late  I  watched 

over  him  like  a  kid. 
I  gave  him  excuse,  I  bore  his  abuse  in  every  way 

that  I  could; 
I  swore  to  prevail;   ^  ^amped  on  his  trail;  I  plotted 

and  planned  for  his  good. 
By  day  and  by  night  I  strove  in  men's  sight  to 

gather  him  into  the  fold. 
With  precept  and  prayer,  with  hope  and  despair,  in 

hunger  and  hardship  and  cold. 
I  followed  him  into  Gehennas  of  sin,  I  sat  where 

the  sirens  sit; 
In  the  shade  of  the  Pole,  for  the  sake  of  his  soul,  I 

strove  with  the  powers  of  the  Pit. 
I  shadowed  him  down  to  the  scrofulous  town;    I 

dragged  him  from  dissolute  brawls; 
But  I  killed  the  galoot  when  he  started  to  shoot 

electricity  into  my  walls. 

39 


THE  BALLAD  OF  PIOUS  PETE 

God  knows  what  I  did  he  should  seek  to  be  rid  of 

one  who  would  save  him  from  shame. 
God  knows  what  I  bore  that  night  when  he  swore 

and  bade  me  make  tracks  from  his  claim. 
I  started  to  tell  of  the  horrors  of  hell,  when  sudden 

his  eyes  lit  like  coals; 
And  "Chuck  it,"  says  he,  "don't  persecute  me  with 

your  cant  and  your  saving  of  souls." 
I'll  swear  I  was  mild  as  I'd  be  with  a  child,  but  he 

called  me  the  son  of  a  slut; 
And,  grabbing  his  gun  with  a  leap  and  a  run,  he 

threatened  my  face  with  the  butt. 
So  what  could  I  do  (I  leave  it  to  you)  ?  With  curses 

he  harried  me  forth; 
Then  he  was  alone,  and  I  was  alone,  and  over  us 

menaced  the  North. 


Our  cabins  were  near;    I  could  see,  I  could  hear; 

but  between  us  there  rippled  the  creek; 
And  all  summer  through,  with  a  rancor  that  grew, 

he  would  pass  me  and  never  would  speak. 
Then  a  shuddery  breath  like  the  coming  of  Death 

crept  down  from  the  peaks  far  away; 
The  water  was  still;  the  twilight  was  chill;  the  sky 

was  a  tatter  of  gray. 
Swift  came  the  Big  Cold,  and  opal  and  gold  the 

lights  of  the  witches  arose; 

40 


THE  BALLAD  OF  PIOUS  PETE 

The    frost-tyrant    clinched,    and    the    valley    was 

cinched  by  the  stark  and  cadaverous  snows. 
The   trees  were   like   lace  where    the    star-beams 

could  chase,  each  leaf  was  a  jewel  agleam. 
The  soft  white  hush   lapped   the  Northland  and 

wrapped  us  round  in  a  crystalline  dream; 
So  still  I  could  hear  quite  loud  in  my  ear  the  swish 

of  the  pinions  of  time; 
So  bright  I  could  see,  as  plain  as  ^lould  be,  the  wings 

of  God's  angels  ashine. 


As  I  read  in  the  Book  I  would  oftentimes  look  to 

that  cabin  just  over  the  creek. 
Ah  me,  it  was  sad  and  evil  and  bad,  two  neighbors 

who  never  would  speak! 
I  knew  that  full  well  like  a  devil  in   hell  he  was 

hatching  out,  early  and  late, 
A  system  to  bear  through  the  frost-spangled  air 

the  warm,  crimson  waves  of  his  hate. 
I   only  could  peer  and  shudder  and   fear — 'twas 

ever  so  ghastly  and  still; 
But  I  knew  over  there  in  his  lonely  despair  he  was 

plotting  me  terrible  ill. 
I  knew  that  he  nursed  a  malice  accurst,  like  the 

blast  of  a  winnowing  flame; 
I  pleaded  aloud  for  a  shield,   for  a  shroud — Oh, 

God!  then  calamity  came. 

41 


THE  BALLAD  OF  PIOUS  PETE 

Mad!   If  I'm  mad  then  you  too  are  mad;   but  it's 

all  in  the  point  of  view. 
If  you'd  looked    at   them  things  gallivantin'  on 

wings,  all  purple  and  green  and  blue; 
If  you'd  noticed  them  twist,  as  they  mounted  and 

hissed  like  scorpions  dim  in  the  dark; 
If  you'd  seen  them  rebound  with  a  horrible  sound, 

and  spitefully  spitting  a  spark; 
If  you'd  watched  It  with  dread,  as  it  hissed  by  your 

bed,  that  thing  with  the  feelers  that  crawls — 
You'd  have  settled  the  brute  that  attempted  to 

shoot  electricity  into  your  walls. 


Oh,  some  they  were  blue,  and  they  slithered  right 
through;  they  were  silent  and  squashy  and 
round ; 

And  some  they  were  green ;  they  were  wriggly  and 
lean;  they  writhed  with  so  hateful  a  sound. 

My  blood  seemed  to  freeze;  I  fell  on  my  knees; 
my  face  was  a  white  splash  of  dread. 

Oh,  the  Green  and  the  Blue,  they  were  gruesome  to 
view ;  but  the  worst  of  them  all  were  the  Red. 

They  came  through  the  door,  they  came  through 
the  floor,  they  came  through  the  moss- 
creviced  logs. 

They  were  savage  and  dire;  they  were  whiskered 
with  fire;  they  bickered  like  malamute  dogs. 

42 


THE  BALLAD  OF  PIOUS  PETE 

fhey  ravined  in  rings  like  iniquitous  things;  they 
gulped  down  the  Green  and  the  Blue. 

I  crinkled  with  fear  whene'er  they  drew  near,  and 
nearer  and  nearer  they  drew. 


And  then  came  the  crown  of  Horror's  grim  crown, 
the  monster  so  loathsomely  red. 

Each  eye  was  a  pin  that  shot  out  and  in,  as,  squid- 
like, it  oozed  to  my  bed ; 

So  softly  it  crept  with  feelers  that  swept  and  quiv- 
ered like  fine  copper  wire; 

Its  belly  was  white  with  a  sulphurous  light,  its 
jaws  were  a-drooling  with  fire. 

It  came  and  it  came;  I  could  breathe  of  its  flame, 
but  never  a  wink  could  I  look. 

I  thrust  in  its  maw  the  Fount  of  the  Law ;  I  fended 
it  off  with  the  Book. 

I  was  weak — oh,  so  weak — but  I  thrilled  at  its 
shriek,  as  wildly  it  fled  in  the  night; 

And  deathlike  I  lay  till  the  dawn  of  the  day.  (Was 
ever  so  welcome  the  light?) 


I  loaded  my  gun  at  the  rise  of  the  sun ;  to  his  cabin 

so  softly  I  slunk. 
My  neighbor  was  there  in  the  frost-freighted  air, 

all  wrapped  in  a  robe  in  his  bunk. 

43 


THE  BALLAD  OF  PIOUS  PETE 

It   muffled   his  moans;   it  outlined  his  bones,  as 

feebly  he  twisted  about; 
His  gums  were  so  black,  and  his  lips  seemed  to 

crack,  and  his  teeth  all  were  loosening  out. 
'Twas  a   death's   head   that   peered   through   the 

tangle  of  beard;    'twas  a  face  I  will  never 

forget; 
Sunk  eyes  full  of  woe,  and  they  troubled  me  so 

with  their  pleadings  and  anguish,  and   yet 
As  I   rested  my  gaze  in  a  misty  amaze  on  the 

scurvy-degenerate  wreck, 
I  thought  of  the  Things  with  the  dragon-fly  wings, 

then  laid  I  my  gun  on  his  neck. 
He  gave  out  a  cry  that  was  faint  as  a  sigh,  like  a 

perishing  malamute. 
And  he  says  unto  me,  "I'm  converted,"  says  he; 

"for  Christ's  sake,  Peter,  don't  shoot!" 


They're  taking  me  out  with  an  escort  about,  and 

under  a  sergeant's  care; 
I  am  humbled  indeed,  for  I'm  'cuffed  to  a  Swede 

that  thinks  he's  a  millionaire. 
But  it's  all  Gospel  true  what  I'm  telling  to  you — 

up  there  where  the  Shadow  falls — 
That  I  settled  Sam  Noot  when  he  started  to  shoot 

electricity  into  my  walls, 


44 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BLASPHEMOUS 
BILL 

I  took  a  contract  to  bury  the  body  of  blasphemous 

Bill  MacKie, 
Whenever,  wherever  or  whatsoever  the  manner  of 

death  he  die — 
Whether  he  die  in  the  light  o'  day  or  under  the 

peak-faced  moon; 
In  cabin  or  dance-hall,  camp  or  dive,  mucklucks 

or  patent  shoon; 
On  velvet  tundra  or  virgin  peak,  by  glacier,  drift 

or  draw ; 
In  muskeg  hollow  or  canyon  gloom,  by  avalanche, 

fang  or  claw; 
By  battle,  murder  or  sudden  wealth,  by  pestilence, 

hooch  or  lead — 
I  swore  on  the  Book  I  would  follow  and  look  till  I 

found  my  tombless  dead. 

For  Bill  was  a  dainty  kind  of  cuss,  and  his  mind 
was  mighty  sot 

On  a  dinky  patch  with  flowers  and  grass  in  a  civil- 
ized bone-yard  lot. 

45 


BALLAD  OF  BLASPHEMOUS  BILL 

And  where  he  died  or  how  he  died,  it  didn't  matter 
a  damn 

So  long  as  he  had  a  grave  with  frills  and  a  tomb- 
stone "epigram." 

So  I  promised  him,  and  he  paid  the  price  in  good 
cheechako  coin 

(Which  the  same  I  blowed  in  that  very  night  down 
in  the  Tenderloin). 

Then  I  painted  a  three-foot  slab  of  pine:  "Here 
lies  poor  Bill  MacKie," 

And  I  hung  it  up  on  my  cabin  wall  and  I  waited 
for  Bill  to  die. 

Years  passed  away,  and  at  last  one  day  came  a 

squaw  with  a  story  strange, 
Of  a  long-deserted  line  of  traps  'way  back  of  the 

Bighorn  range; 
Of  a  little  hut  by  the  great  divide,  and  a  white  man 

stiff  and  still. 
Lying  there  by  his  lonesome  self,  and  I  figured  it 

must  be  Bill. 
So  I  thought  of  the  contract  I'd  made  with  him, 

and  I  took  down  from  the  shelf 
The  swell  black  box  with  the  silver  plate  he'd  picked 

out  for  hisself; 
And  I  packed  it  full  of  grub  and  "hooch,"  and  I 

slung  it  on  the  sleigh; 
Then  I  harnessed  up  my  team  of  dogs  and  was  off 

at  dawn  of  day. 

46 


BALLAD  OF  BLASPHEMOUS  BILL 

Vou  know  what  it's  like  in  the  Yukon  wild  when 

it's  sixty-nine  below; 
When  the  ice-worms  wriggle  their  purple  heads 

through  the  crust  of  the  pale  blue  snow; 
When  the  pine-trees  crack  Hke  little  guns  in  the 

silence  of  the  wood, 
And  the  icicles  hang  down  like  tusks  under  the 

parka  hood; 
When  the  stove-pipe  smoke  breaks  sudden  ofif,  and 

the  sky  is  weirdly  lit, 
And  the  careless  feel  of  a  bit  of  steel  burns  like  a 

red-hot  spit; 
When  the  mercury  is  a  frozen  ball,  and  the  frost- 
fiend  stalks  to  kill — 
Well,  it  was  just  like  that  that  day  when  I  set  out 

to  look  for  Bill. 

Oh,  the  awful  hush  that  seemed  to  crush  me  down 

on  every  hand, 
As  I  blundered  blind  with  a  trail  to  find  through 

that  blank  and  bitter  land; 
Half  dazed,  half  crazed  in  the  winter  wild,  with  its 

grim  heart-breaking  woes, 
And  the  ruthless  strife  for  a  grip  on  life  that  only 

the  sourdough  knows! 
North  by  the  compass,  North  I  pressed;  river  and 

peak  and  plain 
Passed  like  a  dream  I  slept  to  lose  and  I  waked  to 

dream  again 


BALLAD  OF  BLASPHEMOUS  BILL 

River  and  plain  and  mighty  peak — and  who  could 

stand  unawed  ? 
As  their  summits  blazed,  he  could  stand  undazed 

at  the  foot  of  the  throne  of  God. 
North,  aye,  North,  through  a  land  accurst,  shunned 

by  the  scouring  brutes. 
And  all  I  heard  was  my  own  harsh  word  and  the 

whine  of  the  malamutes, 
Till  at  last  I  came  to  a  cabin  squat,  built  in  the  side 

of  a  hill, 
And  I  burst  in  the  door,  and  there  on  the  floor, 

frozen  to  death,  lay  Bill. 

Ice,  white  ice,  like  a  winding-sheet,  sheathing  each 

smoke-grimed  wall; 
Ice  on  the  stove-pipe,  ice  on  the  bed,  ice  gleaming 

over  all; 
Sparkling  ice  on  the  dead  man's  chest,  glittering 

ice  in  his  hair, 
Ice  on  his  fingers,  ice  in  his  heart,  ice  in  his  glassy 

stare; 
Hard  as  a  log  and  trussed  like  a  frog,  with  his  arms 

and  legs  outspread. 
I  gazed  at  the  cofifin  I'd  brought  for  him,  and  I 

gazed  at  the  gruesome  dead, 
And  at  last  I  spoke:  "Bill  liked  his  joke;  but  still, 

goldarn  his  eyes, 
A  man  had  ought  to  consider  his  mates  in  the  way 

he  goes  and  dies." 
48 


BALLAD  OF  BLASPHEMOUS  BILL 

Have  you  ever  stood  in  an  Arctic  hut  in  the^adow 

of  the  Pole, 
With  a  little  coffin  six  by  three  and  a  grief  you 

can't  control? 
Have  you  ever  sat  by  a  frozen  corpse  that  looks 

at  you  with  a  grin, 
And  that  seems  to  say:   "You  may  try  all  day,  but 

you'll  never  jam  me  in?" 
Fm  not  a  man  of  the  quitting  kind,  but  I  never 

felt  so  blue 
As  I  sat  there  gazing  at  that  stiff   and   studying 

what  Pd  do. 
Then  I  rose  and  I  kicked  off  the  husky  dogs  that 

were  nosing  round  about, 
And  I  lit  a  roaring  fire  in  the  stove,  and  I  started 

to  thaw  Bill  out. 

Well,  I  thawed  and  thawed  for  thirteen  days,  but 

it  didn't  seem  no  good; 
His  arms  and  legs  stuck  out  like  pegs,  as  if  they 

was  made  of  wood. 
Till  at  last  I  said:   "  It  ain't  no  use — he's  froze  too 

hard  to  thaw; 
He's  obstinate,  and  he  won't  lie  straight,  so  I  guess 

I  got  to — sawy 
So  I  sawed  off  poor  Bill's  arms  and  legs,  and  I  laid 

him  snug  and  straight 
In  the  little  coffin  he  picked  hisself,  with  the  dinky 

silver  plate; 

49 


BALLAD  OF  BLASPHEMOUS  BILL 

And  I  came  nigh  near  to  shedding  a  tear  as  I  nailed 

him  safely  down; 
Then  I  stowed  him  away  in  my  Yukon  sleigh,  and 

I  started  back  to  town. 

So  I  buried  him  as  the  contract  was  in  a  narrow 

grave  and  deep, 
And  there  he's  waiting  the  Great  Clean-up,  when 

the  Judgment  sluice-heads  sweep; 
And  I  smoke  my  pipe  and  I  meditate  in  the  light  of 

the  Midnight  Sun, 
And  sometimes  I  wonder  if  they  was,  the  awful 

things  I  done. 
And  as  I  sit  and  the  parson  talks,  expounding  of 

the  Law, 
I  often  think  of  poor  old  Bill — and  how  hard  he  was 

to  saw. 


50 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ONE-EYED  MIKE 

This  is  the  tale  that  was  told  to  me  by  the  man  loith 

the  crystal  eye, 
As  I  smoked  my  pipe  in  the  camp-fire  light,  and  the 

Glories  swept  the  sky; 
As  the  Northlights  gleamed  and  curved  and  streamed^ 

and  the  bottle  of  '^ hooch"  was  dry. 

A  man  once  aimed  that  my  life  be  shamed,  and 

wrought  me  a  deathly  wrong; 
I  vowed  one  day  I  would  well  repay,  but  the  heft 

of  his  hate  was  strong. 
He  thonged  me  East  and  he  thonged  me  West;  he 

harried  me  back  and  forth, 
Till  I  fled  in  fright  from  his  peerless  spite  to  the 

bleak,  bald-headed  North. 

And  there  I  lay,  and  for  many  a  day  I  hatched  plan 

after  plan, 
For  a  golden  haul  of  the  wherewithal  to  crush  and 

to  kill  my  man ; 

51 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ONE-EYED  MIKE 

And  there  I  strove,  and  there  I  clove  through  the 

drift  of  icy  streams; 
And  there  I  fought,  and  there  I  sought  for  the  pay 

streak  of  my  dreams. 


So  twenty  years,  with  their  hopes  and  fears  and 

smiles  and  tears  and  such, 
Went  by  and  left  me  long  bereft  of  hope  of  the 

Midas  touch; 
About  as  fat  as  a  chancel  rat,  and  lo!   despite  my 

will. 
In  the  weary  fight  I  nad  clean  lost  sight  of  the  man 

I  sought  to  kill. 

*Twas  so  far  away,  that  evil  day  when  I  prayed 

the  Prince  of  Gloom 
For  the  savage  strength  and  the  sullen  length  of 

life  to  work  his  doom. 
Nor  sign   nor  word   had  I  seen  or  heard,  and  it 

happed  so  long  ago; 
My  youth  was  gone  and  my  memory  wan,  and  I 

willed  it  even  so. 

It  fell  one  night  in  the  waning  light  by  the  Yukon's 

oily  flow, 
I  smoked  and  sat  as  I  marvelled  at  the  sky's  port- 

winey  glow; 

52 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ONE-EYED  MIKE 

Till  it  paled  away  to  an  absinthe  gray,  and  the 

river  seemed  to  shrink, 
All  wobbly  flakes  and  wriggling  snakes  and  goblin 

eyes  a-wink. 


'Twas  weird  to  see  and  it  'wildered  me  in  a  queer, 

hypnotic  dream. 
Till  I  saw  a  spot  like  an  inky  blot  come  floating 

down  the  stream; 
It    bobbed  and  swung;    it  sheered  and  hung;    it 

romped  round  in  a  ring; 
It  seemed  to  play  in  a  tricksome  way;   it  sure  was 

a  merry  thing. 

In  freakish  flights  strange  oily  lights  came  fluttering 

round  its  head. 
Like  butterflies  of  a  monster  size — then  I  knew  it 

for  the  Dead. 
Its  face  was  rubbed  and  slicked  and  scrubbed  as 

smooth  as  a  shaven  pate; 
In  the  silver  snakes  that  the  water  makes  it  gleamed 

like  a  dinner-plate. 

It  gurgled  near,  and  clear  and  clear  and  large  and 

large  it  grew; 
It  stood  upright  in  a  ring  of  light  and  it  looked  me 

through  and  through. 

53 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ONE-EYED  MIKE 

It  weltered  round  with  a  woozy  sound,  and  ere  1 

could  retreat, 
With  the  witless  roll  of  a  sodden  soul  it  wantoned 

to  my  feet. 

And  here  I  swear  by  this  Cross  I  wear,  I  heard  that 

"floater"  say: 
"I  am  the  man  from  whom  you  ran,  the  man  you 

sought  to  slay. 
That  you  may  note  and  gaze  and  gloat,  and  say 

*  Revenge  is  sweet,' 
In  the  grit  and  grime  of  the  river's  slime  I  am 

rotting  at  your  feet. 

"The  ill  we  rue  we  must  e'en  undo,  though  it  rive 

us  bone  from  bone; 
So  it  came  about  that  I  sought  you  out,  for  I  prayed 

I  might  atone. 
I  did  you  wrong,  and  for  long  and  long  I  sought 

where  you  might  live; 
And   now   you're   found,    though    I'm   dead   and 

drowned,  I  beg  you  to  forgive." 

So  sad  it  seemed,  and  its  cheek-bones  gleamed, 
and  its  fingers  flicked  the  shore; 

And  it  lapped  and  lay  in  a  weary  way,  and  its  hands 
met  to  implore; 

54 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ONE-EYED  MIKE 

That  I  gently  said:   "Poor,  restless  dead,  I  would 

never  work  you  woe; 
Though  the  wrong  you  rue  you  can  ne'er  undo, 

I  forgave  you  long  ago." 

Then,  wonder-wise,  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and  I  woke 
from  a  horrid  dream. 

The  moon  rode  high  in  the  naked  sky,  and  some- 
thing bobbed  in  the  stream. 

It  held  my  sight  in  a  patch  of  light,  and  then  it 
sheered  from  the  shore; 

It  dipped  and  sank  by  a  hollow  bank,  and  I  never 
saw  it  more. 


This  was  the  tale  he  told  to  me,  that  man  so  warped 

and  gray, 
Ere  he  slept  and  dreamed,  and  the  camp-fire  gleamed 

in  his  eye  in  a  wolfish  way — 
That  crystal  eye  that  raked  the  sky  in  the  weird 

Auroral  ray. 


55 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAND 

Twas  up  in  a  land  long  famed    for   gold,  where 

women  were  far  and  rare, 
Tellus,    the   smith,  had   taken   to   wife   a   maiden 

amazingly  fair; 
Tellus,  the  brawny  worker  in  iron,  hairy  and  heavy 

of  hand. 
Saw  her  and  loved  her  and  bore  her  away  from  the 

tribe  of  a  Southern  land; 
Deeming  her  w^orthy  to  queen  his  home  and  mother 

him  little  ones. 
That  the  name  of  Tellus,  the  master  smith,  might 

live  in  his  stalwart  sons. 

Now  there  was  little  of  law  in  the  land,  and  evil 

doings  were  rife. 
And  every  man  who  joyed  in  his  home  guarded  the 

fame  of  his  wife; 
For  there  were  those  of  the  silver  tongue  and  the 

honeyed  art  to  beguile. 
Who  would  cozen  the  heart  from  a  woman's  breast 

and  damn  her  soul  with  a  smile. 

56 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAND 

And  there  were  women  too  quick  to  heed  a  look 

or  a  whispered  word, 
And  once  in  a  while  a  man  was  slain,  and  the  ire 

of  the  King  was  stirred ; 
So  far  and  wide  he  proclaimed  his  wrath,  and  this 

was  the  law  he  willed : 
"That  whosoever  killeth  a  man,  even  shall  he  be 

killed." 


Now  Tellus,  the  smith,  he  trusted  his  wife;   his 

heart  was  empty  of  fear. 
High  on  the  hill  was  the  gleam  of  their  hearth,  a 

beacon  of  love  and  cheer. 
High  on  the  hill  they  builded  their  bower,  where 

the  broom  and  the  bracken  meet; 
Under  a  grave  of  oaks  it  was,  hushed  and  drowsily 

sweet. 
Here  he  enshrined  her,  his  dearest  saint,  his  idol, 

the  light  of  his  eye; 
Her  kisses  rested  upon  his  lips  as  brushes  a  butterfly. 
The  weight  of  her  arms  around  his  neck  was  light 

as  the  thistle  down ; 
And  sweetly  she  studied  to  win  his  smile,  and  gently 

she  mocked  his  frown. 
And  when  at  the  close  of  the  dusty  day  his  clang- 
orous toil  was  done, 
She  hastened  to  meet  him  down  the  way  all  lit  by 

the  amber  sun, 

57 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAND 

Their   dove-cot   gleamed   in    the   golden   light,   a 

temple  of  stainless  love; 
Like  the  hanging  cup  of  a  big  blue  flower  was  the 

topaz  sky  above. 
The  roses  and  lilies  yearned  to  her,  as  swift  through 

their  throng  she  pressed; 
A  little  white,  fragile,  fluttering  thing  that  lay  like 

a  child  on  his  breast. 
Then  the  heart  of  Tellus,  the  smith,  was  proud,  and 

sang  for  the  joy  of  life. 
And  there  in  the  bronzing  summertide  he  thanked 

the  gods  for  his  wife. 

Now  there  was  one  called  Philo,  a  scribe,  a  man  of 

exquisite  grace, 
Carved  like  the  god  Apollo  in  limb,  fair  as  Adonis 

in  face; 
Eager  and  winning  of  manner,  full  of  such  radiant 

charm, 
Womenkind  fought  for  his  favor  and  loved  to  their 

uttermost  harm. 
Such  was  his  craft  and  his  knowledge,  such  was  his 

skill  at  the  game, 
Never  was  woman  could  flout  him,  so  be  he  plotted 

her  shame. 
And  so  he  drank  deep  of  pleasure,  and  then  it  fell 

on  a  day 
He  gazed  on  the  wife  of  Tellus  and  marked  her 

out  for  his  prey. 

58 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAND 

Tellus,  the  smith,  wa«  merry,  and  the  time  of  the 

year  it  was  June, 
So  he  said  to  his  stalwart  helpers:  "Shut  down 

the  forge  at  noon. 
Go  ye  and  joy  in  the  sunshine,  rest  in  the  coolth  of 

the  grove. 
Drift  on  the  dreamy  river,  every  man  with  his  love." 
Then  to  himself:  "Oh,  Beloved,  sweet  will  be  your 

surprise; 
To-day  will  we  sport  like  children,  laugh  in  each 

other's  eyes; 
Weave  gay  garlands  of  poppies,  crown  each  other 

with  flowers. 
Pull  plump  carp  from  the  lilies,   rifle  the  ferny 

bowers. 
To-day  with  feasting  and  gladness  the  wine  of 

Cyprus  will  flow; 
To-day  is  the  day  we  were  wedded  only  a  twelve- 
month ago." 

The  larks  trilled  high  in  the  heavens;  his  heart  was 

lyric  with  joy; 
He  plucked  a  posy  of  lilies ;  he  sped  like  a  love-sick 

boy. 
He  stole  up  the  velvety  pathway — his  cottage  was 

sunsteeped  and  still; 
Vines  honeysuckled  the  window;  softly  he  peeped 

o'er  the  sill. 

59 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAND 

The    lilies  dropped  from  his   fingers;  devils  were 

choking  his  breath; 
Rigid  with  horror,  he  stiffened;    ghastly  his  face 

was  as  death. 
Like  a  nun  whose  faith  in  the  Virgin  is  met  with 

a  prurient  jibe, 
He  shrank — 'twas  the  wife  of  his  bosom  in   the 

arms  of  Phib,  the  scribe. 

Tellus  went  back  to  his  smithy;  he  reeled  like  a 
drunken  man; 

His  heart  was  riven  with  anguish;  his  brain  was 
brooding  a  plan. 

Straight  to  his  anvil  he  hurried ;  started  his  furnace 
aglow ; 

Heated  his  iron  and  shaped  it  with  savage  and 
masterful  blow. 

Sparks  showered  over  and  round  him ;  swiftly  under 
his  hand 

There  at  last  it  was  finished — a  hideous  and  in- 
famous Brand. 

That  night  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  the  light  of  joy 

in  her  eyes, 
Kissed  him  with  words  of  rapture;  but  he  knew 

that  her  words  were  lies. 
Never  was  she  so   beguiling,  never   so   merry  of 

speech 

60 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAND 

(For    passion   ripens  a  woman   as    the    sunshine 

ripens  a  peach). 
He  clenched  his  teeth  into  silence;    he  yielded  up 

to  her  lure, 
Though  he   knew  that  her  breasts  were  heaving 

from  the  fire  of  her  paramour. 
"To-morrow,"   he    said,    "to-morrow" — he    wove 

her  hair  in  a  strand. 
Twisted    it  round    his    fingers  and  smiled  as  he 

thought  of  the  Brand. 


The  morrow  was  come,  and  Tellus  swiftly  stole  up 

the  hill. 
Butterflies  drowsed  in  the  noon-heat;  coverts  were 

sunsteeped  and  shrill. 
Softly  he  padded  the  pathway  unto  the  porch,  and 

within 
Heard  he  the  low  laugh  of  dalliance,  heard  he  the 

rapture  of  sin. 
Knew  he  her  eyes  were  mystic  with  light  that  no 

man  should  see. 
No  man  kindle  and  joy  in,  no  man  on  earth  save 

he. 
And  never  for  him  would  it  kindle.     The  blood- 
lust  surged  in  his  brain; 
Through  the  senseless  stone  could  he   see   them, 

wanton  and  warily  fain. 

61 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAND 

Horrible!  Heaven  he  sought  for,  gained  it  and 
gloried  and  fell — 

Oh,  it  was  sudden — headlong  into  the  nether- 
most hell.     .     .     . 


Was  this  he,  Tellus,  this  marble?     Tellus     .     .     . 

not  dreaming  a  dream? 
Ah!   sharp-edged  as  a  javelin,  was  that  a  woman's 

scream? 
Was  it  a  door  that  shattered,  shell-like,  under  his 

blow? 
Was  it  his    saint,  that  strumpet,  dishevelled  and 

cowering  low? 
Was  it  her  lover,  that  wild  thing,  that  twisted  and 

gouged  and  tore? 
Was  it  a  man  he  was  crushing,  whose  head  he  beat 

on  the  floor? 
Laughing  the  while  at    its  weakness,  till  sudden 

he  stayed  his  hand — 
Through  the  red  ring  of  his  madness  flamed  the 

thought  of  the  Brand. 


Then  bound  he  the  naked  Philo  with  thongs  that 

cut  in  the  flesh. 
And  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  fear-frantic,  he  gagged 

with  a  silken  mesh, 

62 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAND 

Choking  her  screams  into  silence;   bound  her  down 

by  the  hair; 
Dragged   her  lover  unto  her  under  her    frenzied 

ctare. 
In  the  heat  of  the  hearth- fire  embers  he  heated  the 

hideous  Brand; 
Twisting  her  fingers  open,  he  forced  its  haft  in  her 

hand. 
He  pressed  it  downward  and  downward;    she  felt 

the  living  flesh  sear; 
She  saw  the  throe  of  her  lover;  she  heard  the  scream 

of  his  fear. 
Once,  twice  and  thrice  he  forced  her,  heedless  of 

prayer  and  shriek — 
Once  on  the  forehead  of  Philo,  twice  in  the  soft  of 

his  cheek. 
Then  (for  the  thing  was  finished)  he  said  to  the 

woman:   "See 
How  you   have   branded  your  lover!   Now  will  I 

let  him  go  free." 
He  severed  the  thongs  that  bound  him,  laughing: 

"  Revenge  is  sweet," 
And  Philo,  sobbing  in  anguish,  feebly  rose  to  his 

feet. 
The   man   who   was    fair   as   Apollo,    god-like   in 

woman's  sight. 
Hideous  now  as  a  satyr,  fled  to  the  pity  of  night. 


63 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BRAND 

Then  came  they  before  the  Judgment  Seat,  and  thus 

spoke  the  Lord  of  the  Land: 
"He  who  seeketh  his  neighbor's  wife  shall  suffer  the 

doom  of  the  Brand. 
Brutish  and  bold  on  his  brow  be  tt  stamped,  deep  in 

his  cheek  let  it  sear. 
That  every  man  may  look  on  his  shame,  and  shudder 

and  sicken  and  fear. 
He  shall  hear  their  mock  in  the  market-place,  their 

Peering  jibe  at  the  feast; 
He  shall  seek  the  caves  and  the  shroud  of  night,  and 

the  fellowship  of  the  beast. 
Outcast  forever  from  homes  of  men,  far  and  far  shall 

he  roam. 
Such  be  the  doom,  sadder  than  death,  of  him  who 

shameth  a  horned 


04 


THE  BALLAD  OF  HARD-LUCK 
HENRY 

Now  wouldn't  you  expect  to  find  a  man  an  awful 

crank 
That's  staked  out  nigh  three  hundred  claims,  and 

every  one  a  blank; 
That's  followed  every  fool  stampede,  and  seen  the 

rise  and  fall 
Of  camps  where  men  got  gold  in  chunks  and  he  got 

none  at  all; 
That's  prospected  a  bit  of  ground  and  sold  it  for 

a  song 
To  see  it  yield  a  fortune  to  some  fool  that  came 

along; 
That's  sunk  a  dozen  bed-rock  holes,  and  not  a  speck 

in  sight. 
Yet  sees  them  take  a  million  from  the  claims  to 

left  and  right? 
Now  aren't  things  like  that  enough  to  drive  a  man 

to  booze? 
But  Hard-Luck  Smith  was  hoodoo-proof — he  knew 

the  way  to  lose. 

65 


BALLAD  OF  HARD  LUCK  HENRY 

Twas  in  the  fall  of  nineteen  four — leap-year  I've 

heard  them  say — 
When  Hard-Luck  came  to  Hunker  Creek  and  took 

a  hillside  lay. 
And  lo !    as  if  to  make  amends  for  all  the  futile 

past, 
Late  in  the  year  he  struck  it  rich,  the  real  pay- 
streak  at  last. 
The   riffles  of   his  sluicing-box  were  choked  with 

speckled  earth, 
And  night  and  day  he  worked  that  lay  for  all  that 

he  was  worth. 
And   when  in   chill   December's  gloom  his   lucky 

lease  expired, 
He  found  that  he  had  made  a  stake  as  big  as  he 

desired. 


One  day  while  meditating  on  the  waywardness  of 

fate, 
He  felt  the  ache  of  lonely  man  to  find  a  fitting  mate; 
A  petticoatcd  pard  to  cheer  his  solitary  life, 
A  woman  with  soft,  soothing  ways,  a  confidant,  a 

wife. 
And  while  he  cooked  his  supper  on  his  little  Yukon 

stove, 
He  wished  that  he  had  staked  a  claim  in  Love's 

rich  treasure-trove; 

66 


BALLAD  OF  HARD-LUCK  HENRY 

When  suddenly  he  paused  and  held  aloft  a  Yukon 

egg, 
For  there  in  pencilled  letters  was  the  magic  name 

of  Peg. 


You  know  these  Yukon  eggs  of  ours — some  pink, 

some  green,  some  blue — 
A  dollar  per,  assorted  tints,  assorted  flavors  too. 
The  supercilious  cheechako  might  designate  them 

high, 
But  one   acquires  a  taste  for  them  and  likes  them 

by-and-by. 
Well,  Hard-Luck  Henry  took  this  egg  and  held  it 

to  the  light, 
And  there  was  more  faint  pencilling  that  sorely 

taxed  his  sight. 
At  last  he  made  it  out,  and  then  the  legend  ran  like 

this — 
"Will  Klondike  miner  write  to  Peg,  Plumhollow, 

Squash ville,  Wis.?" 


That  night  he  got  to  thinking  of  this  far-oflf,  un- 
known fair; 

It  seemed  so  sort  of  opportune,  an  answer  to  his 
prayer. 

67 


BALLAD  OF  HARD-LUCK  HENRY 

She  flitted  sweetly  through  his  dreams,  she  haunted 

him  by  day, 
She  smiled  through  clouds  of  nicotine,  she  cheered 

his  weary  way. 
At  last  he  yielded  to  the  spell;   his  course  of  love 

he  set — 
Wisconsin  his  objective  point;  his  object,  Margaret. 


With  every  mile  of  sea  and  land  his  longing  grew 

and  grew. 
He  practised  all  his  pretty  words,  and  these,  I  fear, 

were  few. 
At  last,  one  frosty  evening,  with  a  cold  chill  down 

his  spine, 
He  found  himself  before  her  house,  the  threshold 

of  the  shrine. 
His  courage  flickered  to  a  spark,  then  glowed  with 

sudden  flame — 
He  knocked ;  he  heard  a  welcome  word ;  she  came 

• — his  goddess  came. 
Oh,  she  was  fair  as  any  flower,  and  huskily  he  spoke: 
"I'm  all  the  way  from  Klondike,  with  a  mighty 

heavy  poke. 
I'm  looking  for  a  lassie,  one  whose  Christian  name 

is  Peg, 
Who  sought  a  Klondike  miner,  and  who  wrote  it 

on  an  egg." 

68 


BALLAD  OF  HARD-LUCK  HENRY 

The  lassie  gazed  at  him  a  space,  her  cheeks  grew 
rosy  red; 

She  gazed  at  him  with  tear-bright  eyes,  then  ten- 
derly she  said : 

"  Yes,  lonely  Klondike  miner,  it  is  true  my  name  is 
Peg. 

It's  also  true  I  longed  for  you  and  wrote  it  on  an 

egg. 
My  heart  went  out  to  someone  in  that  land  of  night 

and  cold; 
But  oh,  I    fear  that  Yukon  egg  must  have  been 

mighty  old. 
I  waited  long,  I  hoped  and  feared ;  you  should  have 

come  before; 
I've  been  a  wedded  woman  now  for  eighteen  months 

or  more. 
I'm  sorry,  since  you've  come  so  far,  you  ain't  the 

one  that  wins; 
But  won't  you  take  a  step  inside — /'//  let  you  see 

the  twins." 


69 


£* 


THE  MAN  FROM  ELDORADO 

He's  the  man  from  Eldorado,  and  he's  just  arrived 
in  town, 
In  moccasins  and  oily  buckskin  shirt. 
He's  gaunt  as  any  Indian,  and  pretty  nigh  as  brown; 

He's  greasy,  and  he  smells  of  sweat  and  dirt. 
He  sports  a  crop  of  whiskers  that  would  shame  a 
healthy  hog; 
Hard  work  has  racked    his  joints   and  stooped 
his  back; 
He  slops  along  the  sidewalk  followed  by  his  yellow 
dog. 
But  he's  got  a  bunch  of  gold-dust  in  his  sack. 

He  seems  a  little  wistful  as  he  blinks  at  all  the 
lights. 
And  maybe  he  is  thinking  of  his  claim 
And  the  dark  and  dwarfish  cabin  where  he  lay  and 
dreamed  at  nights, 
(Thank  God,  he'll  never  see  the  place  again!) 

70 


THE  MAN  FROM  ELDORADO 

Where  he  lived  on  tinned  tomatoes,  beef  embalmed 
and  sourdough  bread, 
On  rusty  beans  and  bacon  furred  with  mould; 
His  stomach's  out  of  kilter  and  his  system  full  of 
lead. 
But  it's  over,  and  his  poke  is  full  of  gold. 

He  has  panted  at  the  windlass,  he  has  loaded  in  the 
drift, 
He  has  pounded  at  the  face  of  oozy  clay; 
He  has  taxed  himself  to  sickness,  dark  and  damp 
and  double  shift. 
He  has  labored  like  a  demon  night  and  day. 
And  now,  praise  God,  it's  over,  and  he  seems  to 
breathe  again 
Of  new-mown  hay,  the  warm,  wet,  friendly  loam; 
He  sees  a  snowy  orchard  in  a  green  and  dimpling 
plain, 
And  a  little  vine-clad  cottage,  and  it's — Home. 


n. 

He's  the  man  from  Eldorado,  and  he's  had  a  bite 
and  sup. 
And  he's  met  in  with  a  drouthy  friend  or  two; 
He's  cached  away  his  gold-dust,  but  he's  sort  of 
bucking  up. 
So  he's  kept  enough  to-night  to  see  him  through. 

71 


THE  MAN  FROM  ELDORADO 

His  eye  is  bright  and  genial,  his  tongue  no  longer 
lags; 

His  heart  is  brimming  o'er  with  joy  and  mirth; 
He  may  be  far  from  savory,  he  may  be  clad  in  rags, 

But  to-night  he  feels  as  if  he  owns  the  earth. 

Says  he:  "Boys,  here  is  where  the  shaggy  North 
and  I  will  shake; 
I  thought  I'd  never  manage  to  get  free. 
I  kept  on  making  misses;   but  at  last  I've  got  my 
stake ; 
There's  no  more  thawing  frozen  muck  for  me. 
I  am  going  to  God's  Country,  where  I'll  live  the 
simple  life; 
I'll  buy  a  bit  of  land  and  make  a  start; 
I'll  carve  a  little  homestead,  and  I'll  win  a  little 
wife. 
And  raise  ten  Httle  kids  to  cheer  my  heart." 

They  signified  their  sympathy  by  crowding  to  the 
bar; 
They  bellied  up  three  deep  and  drank  his  health. 
He  shed  a  radiant  smile  around  and  smoked  a  rank 
cigar; 
They  wished  him  honor,  happiness  and  wealth. 
They  drank  unto  his  wife  to  be — that  unsuspecting 
maid; 
They  drank  unto  his  children  half  a  score; 

72 


THE  MAN  FROM  ELDORADO 

And  when  they  got  through  drinking    very  ten- 
derly they  laid 
The  man  from  Eldorado  on  the  floor. 

III. 

He's  the  man  from  Eldorado,  and  he's  only  start- 
ing in 
To  cultivate  a  thousand-dollar  jag. 
His  poke  is  full  of  gold-dust  and  his  heart  is  full  of 
sin, 
And  he's  dancing  with  a  girl  called  Muckluck  Mag. 
She's  as  light  as  any  fairy ;  she's  as  pretty  as  a  peach; 

She's  mistress  of  the  witchcraft  to  beguile; 
There's  sunshine  in  her  manner,  there  is  music  in 
her  speech, 
And  there's  concentrated  honey  in  her  smile. 

Oh,  the  fever  of  the  dance-hall  and  the  glitter  and 
the  shine. 
The  beauty,  and  the  jewels,  and  the  whirl. 
The  madness  of  the  music,  the  rapture  of  the  wine, 

The  languorous  allurement  of  a  girl! 
She  is  Uke  a  lost  madonna;  he  is  gaunt,  unkempt 
and  grim; 
But  she  fondles  him  and  gazes  in  his  eyes; 
Her  kisses  seek  his  heavy  lips,  and  soon  it  seems 
to  him 
He  has  staked  a  little  claim  in  Paradise. 

73 


THE  MAN  FROM  ELDORADO 

'Who's  for  a  juicy  two-step?"  cries  the  master  of 
the  floor; 
The  music  throbs  with  soft,  seductive  beat. 
There's  glitter,  gilt  and  gladness;  there  are  pretty 
girls  galore; 
There's  a  woolly  man  with  moccasins  on  feet. 
They  know  they've  got  him  going;  he  is  buying 
wine  for  all; 
They  crowd  around  as  buzzards  at  a  feast, 
Then  when  his  poke  is  empty  they  boost  him  from 
the  hall, 
And  spurn  him  in  the  gutter  like  a  beast. 

He's  the  man  from  Eldorado,  and  he's  painting 
red  the  town; 
Behind  he  leaves  a  trail  of  yellow  dust; 
In  a  whirl  of  senseless  riot  he  is  ramping  up  and 
down ; 
There's    nothing    checks   his   madness   and    his 
lust. 
And  soon  the  word  is  passed  around — it  travels 
like  a  flame; 
They  fight  to  clutch  his  hand  and  call  him  friend, 
The  chevaliers  of  lost  repute,  the  dames  of  sorry 
fame; 
Then  comes  the  grim  awakening — the  end. 


THE  MAN  FROM  ELDORADO 

IV. 

He*5  the  man  from  Eldorado,  and  he  gives  a  grand 
affair; 
There's     feasting,    dancing,    wine    without    re- 
straint. 
The  smooth  Beau  Brummels  of  the  bar,  the  faro 
men,  are  there; 
The  tinhorns  and  purveyors  of  red  paint; 
The  sleek   and  painted  women,   their  predacious 
eyes  aglow — 
Sure  Klondike  City  never  saw  the  like; 
Then  Muckluck  Mag  proposed  the  toast,  "The  giver 
of  the  show. 
The  Hvest  sport  that  ever  hit  the  pike." 


The  "live  one"  rises  to  his  feet;    he  stammers  to 
reply — 
And  then  there  comes  before  his  muddled  brain 
A   vision  of   green    vastitudes   beneath,   an   April 
sky, 
And  clover  pastures  drenched  with  silver  rain. 
He  knows  that  it  can  never  be,  that  he  is  down  and 
out; 
Life  leers  at  him  with  foul  and  fetid  breath ; 
And  then  amid  the  revelry,  the  song  and  cheer  and 
shout, 
He  suddenly  grows  grim  and  cold  as  death. 

75 


THE  MAN  FROM  ELDORADO 

He  grips  the  table  tensely,  and  he  says:    "Deal 
friends  of  mine, 
I've  let  you  dip  your  fingers  in  my  purse; 
I've  crammed  you  at  my  table,  and  I've  drowned 
you  in  my  wine. 
And  I've  little  left  to  give  you  but — my  curse. 
I've  failed  supremely  in  my  plans;   it's  rather  late 
to  whine; 
My  poke  is  mighty  weasened  up  and  small. 
I  thank  you  each  for  coming  here;    the  happiness 
is  mine — 
And  now,  you  thieves  and  harlots,  take  it  all." 

He  twists  the  thong  from  off  his  poke;    he  swings 
it  o'er  his  head; 
The  nuggets  fall  around  their  feet  like  grain. 
They  rattle  over  roof  and  wall;  they  scatter,  roll 
and  spread; 
The  dust  is  like  a  shower  of  golden  rain. 
The  guests  a  moment  stand  aghast,  then  grovel  on 
the  floor; 
They  fight,  and  snarl,  and  claw,  like  beasts  of 
prey; 
And  then,  as  everybody  grabbed  and  everybody 
swore, 
The  man  from  Eldorado  slipped  away. 


76 


THE  MAN  FROM  ELDORADO 

V. 

Re's  the  man  from  Eldorado,  and  they  found  him 
stiff  and  dead, 
Half  covered  by  the  freezing  ooze  and  dirt. 
A  clotted  Colt  was  in  his  hand,  a  hole  was  in  his 
head. 
And  he  wore  an  old  and  oily  buckskin  shirt. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  and  horrible,  as  one  who  hails 
the  end; 
The  frost  had  set  him  rigid  as  a  log; 
And  there,  half  lying  on  his  breast,  his  last  and  only 
friend, 
There  crouched  and  whined  a  mangy  yellow  dog. 


77 


MY  FRIENDS 

The  man  above  was  a  murderer,  the  man  below 

was  a  thief; 
And  I  lay  there  in  the  bunk  between,  ailing  beyond 

belief; 
A  weary  armful  of  skin  and  bone,  wasted  with  pain 

and  grief. 

My  feet  were  froze,  and  the  lifeless  toes  were  purple 

and  green  and  gray; 
The  little  flesh  that  clung  to  my  bones,  you  could 

punch  it  in  holes  like  clay; 
The  skin  on  my  gums  was  a  sullen  black,  and  slowly 

peeling  away. 

I  was  sure  enough  in  a  direful  fix,  and  often  I  won- 
dered why 

They  did  not  take  the  chance  that  was  left  and 
leave  me  alone  to  die. 

Or  finish  me  off  with  a  dose  of  dope — so  uttei'J^ 
lost  was  I. 

78 


MY  FRIENDS 

But  no;  they  brewed  me  the  green-spruce  tea,  and 

nursed  me  there  like  a  child; 
And  the  homicide  he  was  good  to  me,  and  bathed 

my  sores  and  smiled; 
And  the  thief  he  starved  that  I  might  be  fed,  and 

his  eyes  were  kind  and  mild. 

Yet  they  were  woefully  wicked  men,  and  often  at 

night  in  pain 
I  heard  the  murderer  speak  of  his  deed  and  dream 

it  over  again; 
I  heard  the  poor  thief  sorrowing  for  the  dead  self 

he  had  slain. 

I'll  never  forget  that  bitter  dawn,  so  evil,  askew 
and  gray. 

When  they  wrapped  me  round  in  the  skins  of 
beasts  and  they  bore  me  to  a  sleigh. 

And  we  started  out  with  the  nearest  post  an  hun- 
dred miles  away. 

I'll  never  forget  the  trail  they  broke,  with  its  tense, 
unuttered  woe; 

And  the  crunch,  crunch,  crunch  as  their  snow- 
shoes  sank  through  the  crust  of  the  hollow 
snow; 

And  my  breath  would  fail,  and  every  beat  of  my 
heart  was  like  a  blow. 

79 


MY  FRIENDS 

And  oftentimes  I  would  die  the  death,  yet  wake 

up  to  life  anew; 
The  sun  would  be  all  ablaze  on  the  waste,  ^^nd  the 

sky  a  blighting  blue, 
And  the  tears  would  rise  in  my  snow-blind   e^ .  ? 

and  furrow  my  cheeks  like  dew. 

And  the  camps  we  made  when  their  strength  out- 
played and  the  day  was  pinched  and  wan; 

And  oh,  the  joy  of  that  blessed  halt,  and  how  I 
did  dread  the  dawn; 

And  how  I  hated  the  weary  men  who  ro3e  and 
dragged  me  on. 

And  oh,  how  I  begged  to  rest,  to  rest — the  snow 

was  so  sweet  a  shroud ; 
And  oh,  how  I  cried  when  they  urged  me  on,  cried 

and  cursed  them  aloud; 
Yet  on  they  strained,  all  racked  and  pained,  and 

sorely  their  backs  were  bowed. 

And  then  it  was  all  like  a  lurid  dream,  and  I  prayed 

for  a  swift  release 
From  the  ruthless  ones  who  would  not  leave  me  to 

die  alone  in  peace; 
Till  I  wakened  up  and  I  found  myself  at  the  post 

of  the  Mounted  PoUce. 

80 


MY  FRIENDS 

And  there  was  my  friend  the  murderer,  and  there 

was  my  friend  the  thief, 
With  bracelets  of  steel  around  their  wrists,  and 

wicked  beyond  belief: 
But  when  they  come  to  God's  judgment  seat— • 

may  I  be  allowed  the  brief. 


•I 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

I  strolled  up  old  Bonanza,  where  I  staked  in  ninety- 
eight, 
A-purpose  to  revisit  the  old  claim. 
I  kept  thinking  mighty  sadly  of  the  funny  ways  of 
Fate, 
And    the   lads   who   once  were  with   me  in  the 
game. 
Poor   boys,  they're  down-and-outers,  and    there's 
scarcely  one  to-day 
Can  show  a  dozen  colors  in  his  poke; 
And  me,   I'm  still  prospecting,  old  and  battered, 
gaunt  and  gray, 
And    I'm    looking   for   a    grub-stake,    and    I'm 
broke. 

I  strolled  up  old  Bonanza.     The  same  old  moon 
looked  down; 
The  same  old  landmarks  seemed  to  yearn  to  me; 
But  the  cabins  all  were  silent,  and  the  flat,  once  like 
a  town. 
Was  mighty  still  and  lonesome-like  to  see. 

S2 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

There  were  piles   and   piles  of   tailings  where  we 
toiled  with  pick  and  pan, 

And  turning  round  a  bend  I  heard  a  roar, 
And  there  a  giant  gold-ship  of  the  very  newest  plan 

Was  tearing  chunks  of  pay-dirt  from  the  shore. 

It  wallowed  in  its  water-bed;  it  burrowed,  heaved 
and  swung; 
It  gnawed  its  way  ahead  with  grunts  and  sighs; 
Its  bill  of    fare  was  rock  and   sand;    the  tailings 
were  its  dung; 
It  glared  around  with  fierce  electric  eyes. 
Full  fifty  buckets  crammed  its  maw;    it   bellowed 
out  for  more; 
It  looked  like  some  great  monster  in  the  gloom. 
With  two  to  feed  its  sateless  greed,  it  worked  for 
seven  score, 
And  I  sighed:    "Ah,  old-time  miner,  here's  your 
doom!" 

The  idle  windlass  turns  to  rust;  the  sagging  sluice- 
box  falls; 
The  holes  you  digged  are  water  to  the  brim ; 
Your  little  sod-roofed  cabins  with  the  snugly  moss- 
chinked  walls 
Are  deathly  now  and  mouldering  and  dim. 
The  battle-field  is  silent  where  of  old  you  fought 
it  out; 
The  claims  you  fiercely  won  are  lost  and  sold; 

83 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

But  there's  a  little  army  that  they'll  never  put  to 
rout — 
The  men  who  simply  live  to  seek  the  gold. 


The  men  who  can't  remember  when  they  learned 
to  swing  a  pack, 
Or  in  what  lawless  land  the  quest  began; 
The  solitary  seeker  with  his  grub-stake  on  his  back, 

The  restless  buccaneer  of  pick  and  pan. 
On  the  mesas  of  the  Southland,  on  the  tundras  of 
the  North, 
You  will  find  us,  changed   in  face  but  still  the 
same; 
And  it  isn't  need,  it  isn't  greed  that  sends  us  faring 
forth — 
It's  the  fever,  it's  the  glory  of  the  game. 


For  once  you've  panned  the  speckled  sand  and  seen 
the  bonny  dust, 
Its  peerless  brightness  blinds  you  like  a  spell; 
It's  little  else  you  care  about;   you  go  because  you 
must. 
And  you  feel  that  you  could  follow  it  to  hell. 
You'd  follow  it  in  hunger,  and  you'd  follow  it  ii» 
cold ; 
You'd  follow  it  in  solitude  and  pain; 

84 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

And  when  you're  stiff  and  battened  down  let  some* 
one  whisper  "Gold," 
You're  lief  to  rise  and  follow  it  again. 


Yet  look  you,  if  I  find  the  stuff  it's  just  like  so  much 
dirt; 
I  fling  it  to  the  four  winds  like  a  child. 
It's  wine  and  painted  women  and  the  things  thai 
do  me  hurt. 
Till  I  crawl  back,  beggared,  broken,  to  the  Wild. 
Till  I  crawl  back,  sapped  and  sodden,  to  my  grub- 
stake and  my  tent — 
There's    a    city,   there's   an    army    (hear   them 
shout). 
There's  the  gold  in  millions,  millions,  but  I  haven't 
got  a  cent; 
And  oh,  it's  me,  it's  me  that  found  it  out. 


It  was  my  dream  that  made  it  good,  my  dream 
that  made  me  go 
To  lands  of  dread  and  death  disprized  of  man; 
But  oh,  I've  known  a  glory  that  their  hearts  will 
never  know, 
When  I  picked  the  first  big  nugget  from  my  pan. 
It's  still  my  dream,  my  dauntless  dream,  that  drives 
me  forth  once  more 
To  seek  and  starve  and  suffer  in  the  Vast; 

85 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

That  heaps  my  heart  with  eager  hope,  that  glira- 
mers  on  before — 
My  dream  that  will  uplift  me  to  the  last. 

Perhaps  I  am  stark  crazy,  but  there's  none  of  you 
too  sane; 
It's  just  a  little  matter  of  degree. 
My  hobby  is  to  hunt  out  gold;    it's  fortressed  I'o 
my  brain; 
It's  life  and  love  and  wife  and  home  to  me. 
And  I'll  strike  it,  yes,  I'll  strike  it;    I've  a  hunch 
I  cannot  fail; 
I've  a  vision,  I've  a  prompting,  1  ve  a  call; 
I  hear  the  hoarse  stampeding  of  an  army  on  my 
trail. 
To  the  last,  the  greatest  gold  camp  of  them  all. 

Beyond  the  shark-tooth  ranges  sawing  savage  at 
the  sky 
There's  a  lowering  land  no  white  man  ever  struck; 
There's  gold,  there's  gold  in  millions,  and  I'll  find 
it  if  I  die. 
And  I'm  going  there  once  more  to  try  my  luck. 
Maybe  I'll  fail — what  matter?     It's  a  mandate,  it's 
a  vow; 
And  when  in  lands  of  dreariness  and  dread 
"V^u  seek  the  last  lone  frontier,  far  beyond  your 
frontiers  now, 
Vou  will  find  the  old  prospector,  silent,  dead. 
86 


THE  PROSPECTOR 

You  will  find  a  tattered  tent-pole  with  a  ragged  robe 
below  it; 
You  will  find  a  rusted  gold-pan  on  the  sod; 
You  will  find  the  claim  Fm  seeking,  with  my  bones 
as  stakes  to  show  it; 
But  I've  sought  the  last  Recorder,  and  He's — God, 


87 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP 


"  The  aristocratic  ne'er-do-well  in  Canada  frequently 
finds  his  way  into  the  ranks  of  the  Royal  North-West 
Mounted  Police." — Extract. 


Hark  to  the  ewe  that  bore  him: 

"  What  has  muddied  the  strain? 
Never  his  brothers  before  him 

Showed  the  h  nt  of  a  stain" 
Hark  to  the  tups  and  wethers; 

Hark  to  the  old  gray  ram: 
"  We're  all  of  us  white,  but  he's  black  as  night, 

And  he'll  never  be  worth  a  damn." 

Vm.  up  on  the  bally  wood -pile  at  the  back  of  the 

barracks  yard; 
"A  damned   disgrace    to    the  force,  sir."  with  a 

comrade  standing  guard ; 
Making  the  bluflf  I'm  busy,  doing  my  six  months 

hard. 

88 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP 

"Six  months  hard  and  dismissed,  sir."     Isn't  that 

rather  hell? 
And  all  because  of  the  liquor  laws  and   the  wiles 

of  a  native  belle — 
Some  "hooch"  I  gave  to  a  si  wash  brave  who  swore 

that  he  wouldn't  tell. 


At  least  they  say  that  I  did  it.     It's  so  in  the  town 

report. 
All  that  I  can  recall  is  a  night  of  revel  and  sport, 
When  I  woke  with  a  "head"  in  the  guard-room, 

and  they  dragged  me  sick  into  court. 


And  the  O.  C.  said:   "You  are  guilty,"  and  I  said 

never  a  word; 
For,  hang  it,  you  see  I  couldn't — I  didn't  know  w/fo^ 

had  occurred. 
And,  under   the   circumstances,  denial   would    be 

absurd. 


But  the  one  that  cooked  my  bacon  was  Grubbe,  of 

the  City  Patrol. 
He  fagged  for  my  room  at  Eton,  and  didn't  I  devil 

his  soul! 
And  now  he  is  getting  even,  landing  me  down  in 

the  hole. 

89 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP 

Plugging   away   on   the   wood-pile;    doing  chorea 

round  the  square. 
There  goes  an  officer's  lady — gives  me  a  haughty 

stare — 
Me   that's   an   earl's   own   nephew — that   is    the 

hardest  to  bear. 

To  think  of  the  poor  old  mater  awaiting  her  prodi- 
gal son. 

Tho'  I  broke  her  heart  with  my  folly,  I  was  always 
the  white-haired  one. 

(That  fatted  calf  that  they're  cooking  will  surely 
be  overdone.) 

I'll  go  back  and    yarn  to  the  Bishop;    I'll   dance 

with  the  village  belle; 
I'll  hand  round  tea  to  the  ladies,  and  everything 

will  be  well. 
Where  I  have  been  won't  matter;    what  I  have 

seen  I  won't  tell. 


I'll  soar  to  their  ken  like  a  comet.     They'll  see  me 

with  never  a  stain ; 
But  will  they  reform  me? — far  from  it.     We  pay 

for  our  pleasure  with  pain; 
But  the  dog  will  return  to  his  vomit,  the  hog  to 

his  wallow  again. 

90 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP 

I'vte  chewed  on  the  rind  of  creation,  and  bitter  I've 
tasted  the  same ; 

Stacked  up  against  hell  and  damnation,  I've  man- 
aged to  stay  in  the  game ; 

I've  had  my  moments  of  sorrow;  I've  had  my 
seasons  of  shame. 

That's  past;  when  one's  nature's  a  cracked  one, 

it's  too  jolly  hard  to  mend. 
So  long  as  the  road  is  level,  so  long  as  I've  cash  to 

spend, 
I'm  bound  to  go  to  the  devil,  and  it's  all  the  same 

in  the  end 

The  bugle  is  sounding  for  stables;   the  men  troop 

off  through  the  gloom; 
An  orderly  laying   the   tables  sings  in  the  bright 

mess-room. 
(I'll  wash  in  the  prison  bucket,  and  brush  with  the 

prison  broom.) 

I'll  lie  in  my  cell  and  listen;  I'll  wish  that  I  couldn't 

hear 
The  laugh  and  the  chaff  of  the  fellows  swigging  the 

canteen  beer; 
The  nasal  tone  of  the  gramophone  playing  "The 

Bandolier." 

91 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP 

And  it  seems  to  me,  though  it's  misty,  that  night 

of  the  flowing  bowl, 
That  the  man  who  potlatched  the   whiskey   and 

landed  me  into  the  hole 
Was  Grubbe,  that  unmerciful  bounder,  Grub^f  of  the 

City  Patrol, 


92 


THE  TELEGRAPH  OPERATOR 

I  win  not  wash  my  face; 

I  will  not  brush  my  hair; 
I  "pig"  around  the  place — 

There's  nobody  to   care. 
Nothing  but  rock  and  tree; 

Nothing  but  wood  and  stone, 
Oh,  God,  it's  hell  to  be 

Alone,  alone,  alone! 


Snow-peaks  and  deep-gashed  draws 

Corral  me  in  a  ring. 
I  feel  as  if  I  was 

The  only  living  thing 
On  all  this  blighted  earth; 

And  so  I  frowst  and  shrink, 
And  crouching  by  my  hearth 

I  hear  the  thoughts  I  thins. 

I  think  of  all  I  miss — 

The  boys  I  used  to  know; 

The  girls  I  used  to  kiss; 
The  coin  I  used  to  blow: 

93 


THE  TELEGRAPH  OPERATOR 

The  bars  I  used  to  haunt; 

The  racket  and  the  row; 
The  beers  I  didn't  want 

(I  wish  I  had  'em  now). 

Day  after  day  the  s  aiiie, 

Only  a  little  worse; 
No  one  to  grouch  or  blame^ 

Oh,  for  a  loving  curse i 
Oh,  in  the  night  I  fear, 

Haunted  by  nameless  things, 
Just  for  a  voice  to  cheer, 

Tust  for  a  hand  that  clings  1 

Faintly  as  from  a  star 

Voices  come  o'er  the  line; 
Voices  of  ghosts  afar. 

Not  in  this  world  of  mine; 
Lives  in  whose  loom  I  grope; 

Words  in  whose  weft  I  hear 
Eager  the  thrill  of  hope, 

Awful  the  chill  of  fear. 


I'm  thinking  out  aloud; 

I  reckon  that  is  bad ; 
(The   snow  is  like  a  shroud)- 

Maybe  I'm  going  mad. 

94 


THE  TELEGRAPH  OPERATOR 

Say!  wouldn't  that  be  tough? 

This  awful  hush  that  hugs 
And  chokes  one  is  enough 

To  make  a  man  go  "bugs." 

There's  not  a  thing  to  do; 

I  cannot  sleep  at  night; 
No  wonder  I'm  so  blue; 

Oh,  for  a  friendly  fight! 
The  din  and  rush  of  strife; 

A  music-hall  aglow; 
A  crowd,  a  city,  life — 

Dear  God,  I  miss  it  so! 

Here,  you  have  moped  enough! 

Brace  up  and  play  the  game! 
But  say,  it's  awful  tough — 

Day  after  day  the  same 
(I've  said  that  twice,  I  bet). 

Well,  there's  not  much  to  say. 
I  wish  I  had  a  pet, 

Or  something  I  could  play. 

Cheer  up!  don't  get  so  glum 

And  sick  of  everything; 
The  worst  is  yet  to  come; 

God  help  you  till  the  Spring. 

95 


THE  TELEGRAPH  OPERATOR 

God  shield  you  from  the  Fear; 
Teach  you  to  laugh,  r.ot  moan. 

Ha!  ha!  it  sounds  so  queer- 
Alone,  alone,  alone  1 


9t 


THE  WOOD-CUTTER 

The  sky  is  like  an  envelope, 

One  of  those  blue  official  things; 
And,  sealing  it,  to  mock  our  hope, 

The  moon,  a  silver  wafer,  clings. 
What  shall  we  find  when  death  gives  leave 
To  read — our  sentence  or  reprieve? 

I'm  holding  it  down  on  God's  scrap-pile,  up  on  the 
fag-end  of  earth; 
O'er  me  a  menace  of  mountains,  a  river  that 
grits  at  my  feet; 
Face  to  face  with  my  soul-self,  weighing  my  life 
at  its  worth; 
Wondering  what  I  was  made  for,  here  in  my 
last  retreat. 

Last!  Ah,  yes,  it's  the  finish.    Have  ever  you  heard 
a  man  cry? 
(Sobs  that  rake  him  and  rend  him,  right  from 
the  base  of  the  chest.) 

97 


THE  WOOD-GUTTER 

That's  how   I've  cried,  oh,   so  often;    and    now 
that  my  tears  are  dry, 
I   sit   in   the  desolate  quiet   and   wait  for  the 
infinite  Rest. 

Rest!  Well,  it's  restful  around  me;  it's  quiet  clean 
to  the  core. 
The  mountains  pose  in  their  ermine,  in  golden 
the  hills  are  clad; 
The  big,  blue,  silt-freighted  Yukon  seethes  by  my 
cabin  door. 
And  I  think  it's  only  the  river  that  keeps  me 
from  going  mad. 

By  day  it's  a  ruthless  monster,  a  callous,  insatiate 

thing. 

With  oily  bubble  and  eddy,  with  sudden  swirling 

of  breast ; 

By  night  it's  a  writhing  Titan,  sullenly  murmuring, 

Ever  and  ever  goaded,  and  ever  crying  for  rest. 

It  cries  for  its  human  tribute,  but  me  it  will  never 
drown. 
I've   learned   the  lore  of  my   river;    my  river 
obeys  me  well. 
I  hew  and  I  launch  my  cordwood,  and  raft  it  to 
Dawson  town. 
Where    wood    means    wine   and   women,   and* 
incidentally,  hell. 

98 


THE  WOOD-GUTTER 

Hell  and  the  anguish  thereafter.     Here  as  I  sit 
alone 
I'd  give  the  life  I  have  left  me  to  lighten  some 
load  of  care: 

(The  bitterest  part  of  the  bitter  is  being  denied  to 
atone ; 

Lips  that  have  mocked   at   Heaven    lend   them- 
selves ill  to  prayer.) 

Impotent  as  a  beetle  pierced  on  the  needle  of  Fate; 
A  wretch  in  a  cosmic  death-cell,  peaks  for  my  prison 
bars; 
*  Whelmed  by  a  world  stupendous,  lonely  and  listless 
I  wait, 
Drowned  in  a  sea  of  silence,  strewn  with  confetti 
of  stars. 

See!  from  far  up  the  valley  a  rapier  pierces  the 
night, 
The  white    search-ray  of    a  steamer.     Swiftly, 
serenely  it  nears; 
A  proud,  white,  alien  presence,  a  glittering  galley 
of  light, 
Confident-poised,    triumphant,    freighted     with 
hopes  and  fears. 

I  look  as  one  looks  on  a  vision;  I  see  it  pulsating  by; 
I  glimpse  joy-radiant  faces;    I  heeir  the  thresh 
of  the  wheel. 

99 


THE  WOOD-GUTTER 

Hoof -like  my  heart  beats  a  moment;   then  silence 
swoops  from  the  sky. 
Darkness   is   piled    upon  darkness.      God   only 
knows  how  I  feel. 

Maybe  you've  seen  me  sometimes;   maybe  you've 
pitied  me  then — 
The  lonely  waif  of  the  wood-camp,  here  by  my 
cabin  door. 
Some  day  you'll  look  and  see  not;  futile  and  out- 
cast of  men, 
I  shall  be  far  from  your  pity,  resting  forevermore. 

My  life    was  a  problem  in  ciphers,  a  weary  and 
profitless  sum. 
Slipshod  and  stupid  I  worked  it,  dazed  by  negation 
and  doubt. 
Ciphers  the  total  confronts  me.     Oh,  Death,  with  thy 
moistened  thumb, 
Stoop  like  a  petulant  schoolboy,  wipe  me  forever  ottti 


100 


THE  SONG  OF   THE   MOUTH-ORGAN 

(With  apologies  to  the  singer  of  the  "  Song  of  the  Banjo.**) 

I'm  a  homely  little  bit  of  tin  and  bone; 

I'm  beloved  by  the  Legion  of  the  Lost; 
I  haven't  got  a  "vox  humana"  tone, 

And  a  dime  or  two  will  satisfy  my  cost. 
I  don't  attempt  your  high-falutin'  flights; 

I  am  more  or  less  uncertain  on  the  key; 
But  I  tell  you,  boys,  there's  lots  and  lots  of  nights 

When  you've  taken  mighty  comfort  out  of  me. 

I  weigh  an  ounce  or  two,  and  I'm  so  small 

You  can  pack  me  in  the  pocket  of  your  vest; 
And  when  at  night  so  wearily  you  crawl 

Into  your  bunk  and  stretch  your  limbs  to  rest, 
You  take  me  out  and  play  me  soft  and  low, 

The  simple  songs  that  trouble  your  heartstrings: 
The  tunes  you  used  to  fancy  long  ago. 

Before  you  made  a  rotten  mess  of  things. 

lOI 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   MOUTH-ORGAN 

Then  a  dreamy  look  will  come  into  your  eyes, 

And  you  break  off  in  tlie  middle  of  a  note; 
And  then,  with  just  the  dreariest  of  sighs, 

You  drop  me  in  the  pocket  of  your  coat. 
But  somehow  I  have  bucked  you  up  a  bit; 

And,  as  you  turn  around  and  face  the  wall, 
You  don't  feel  quite  so  spineless  and  unfit — 

You're  not  so  bad  a  fellow  after  all. 

Do  you  recollect  the  bitter  Arctic  night; 

Your  camp  beside  the  canyon  on  the  trail; 
Your  tent  a  tiny  square  of  orange  light; 

The  moon  above  consumptive-like  and  pale; 
Your  supper  cooked,  your  little  stove  aglow; 

You  tired,  but  snug  and  happy  as  a  child? 
Then  'twas  "Turkey  in  the  Straw"  till  your  lips 
were  nearly  raw, 

And  you  hurled  your  bold  defiance  at  the  Wild 

Do  you  recollect  the  flashing,  lashing  pain; 

The  gulf  of  humid  blackness  overhead; 
The  lightning  making  rapiers  of  the  rain; 

The  cattle-horns  like  candles  of  the  dead 
You  sitting  on  your  bronco  there  alone. 

In  your  slicker,  saddle-sore  and  sick  with  cold? 
Do  you  think  the  silent  herd  did  not  hear  "The 
Mocking  Bird," 

Or  relish  "Silver  Threads  amone  th/^  Gold?" 

I02 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MOUTH-ORGAN 

Do  you  recollect  the  wild  Magellan  coast; 

The  head -winds  and  the  icy,  roaring  seas; 
The  nights  you  thought  that  everything  was  lost; 

The  days  you  toiled  in  water  to  your  knees; 
The  frozen  ratlines  shrieking  in  the  gale; 

The  hissing  steeps  and  gulfs  of  livid  foam: 
When  you  cheered  your  messmates  nine  with  "  Ben 
Bolt"  and  "Clementine," 

And  "Dixie  Land"  and  "Seeing  Nellie  Home?" 

Let  the  jammy  banjo  voice  the  Younger  Son, 

Who  waits  for  his  remittance  to  arrive; 
I  represent  the  grimy,  gritty  one, 

Who  sweats  his  bones  to  keep  himself  alive; 
Who's  up  against  the  real  thing  from  his  birth; 

Whose  heritage  is  hard  and  bitter  toil; 
I  voice  the  weary,  smeary  ones  of  earth, 

The  helots  of  the  sea  and  of  the  soil. 

I'm  the  Steinway  of  strange  mischief  and  mischance; 

I'm  the  Stradivarius  of  blank  defeat; 
In  the  down-world,  when  the  devil  leads  the  dance, 

I  am  simply  and  symbolically  meet; 
I'm  the  irrepressive  spirit  of  mankind; 

I'm  the  small  boy  playing  knuckle  down  with 
Death ; 
At  the  end  of  all  things  known,  where  God's  rubbish- 
heap  is  thrown, 
I  shrill  impudent  triumph  at  a  breath. 
103 


THE  SONG   OF   THE   MOUTH-CRGAN 

I'm  a  humble  little  bit  of  tin  and  horn; 

I'm  a  byword,  I'm  a  plaything,  I'm  a  jest; 
The  virtuoso  looks  on  me  with  scorn ; 

But  there's  times  when  I  am  better  than  the 
best. 
Ask  the  stoker  and  the  sailor  of  the  sea; 

Ask  the  mucker  and  the  hewer  of  the  pine; 
Ask  the  herder  of  the  plain,  ask  the  gleaner  of  the 
grain — 

There's  a  lowly,  loving  kingdom — and  it's  mine. 


304 


THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY-EIGHT 


Gold!  We  leapt  from  our  benches.  Gold!  We 
sprang  from  our  stools. 

Gold!  We  wheeled  in  the  furrow,  fired  with  the 
faith  of  fools. 

Fearless,  unfound,  unfitted,  far  from  the  night  and 
the  cold, 

Heard  we  the  clarion  summons,  followed  the  master- 
lure— Gold! 

Men  from  the  sands  of  the  Sunland ;  men  from  the 
woods  of  the  West; 

Men  from  the  farms  and  the  cities,  into  the  North- 
land we  pressed. 

Graybeards  and  striplings  and  women,  good  men 
and  bad  men  and  bold. 

Leaving  our  homes  and  our  loved  ones,  crying 
exultantly— "Gold!" 

Never  was  seen  such  an  army,  pitiful,  futile,  unfit; 
Never  was  seen  such  a  spirit,  manifold  courage  and 
grit 

105 


THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY-EIGHT 

Never  has  been  such  a  cohort  under  one  banner 

unrolled 
As  surged  to  the  ragged-edged  Arctic,  urged  by 

the  arch-tempter — Gold. 

''Farewell!"  we  cried   to   our   dearests;   little  we 

cared  for  their  tears. 
"  Farewell! "  we  cried  to  the  humdrum  and  the  yoke 

of  the  hireling  years; 
Just  like  a  pack  of  school-boys,  and  the  big  crowd 

cheered  us  good-bye. 
Never  were  hearts  so  uplifted,  never  were  hopes  so 

high. 

The  spectral  shores  flitted  past  us,  and  every  whirl 

of  the  screw 
Hurled  us  nearer  to  fortune,  and  ever  we  planned 

what  we'd  do — 
Do   with    the   gold    when   we   got    it — big,  shiny 

nuggets  like  plums, 
There  in  the  sand  of  the  river,  gouging  it  out  with 

our  thumbs. 


And  one  man  wanted  a  castle,  another  a  racing 

stud; 
A  third  would  cruise  in  a  palace  yacht  like  a  red' 

necked  prince  of  blood. 

io6 


THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY-EIGHT 

And  so  we  dreamed  and  we  vaunted,  millionaires 

to  a  man, 
Leaping  to  wealth  in  our  visions  long  ere  the  trail 

began. 

II. 

f\  We  landed  in  wind-swept  Skagway.     We  joined 

the  weltering  mass, 
Clamoring  over  their  outfits,  waiting  to  climb  the 

Pass. 
We  tightened  our  girths  and  our  pack-gfcraps;    we 

linked  on  the  Human  Chain, 
Struggling  up  to  the  summit,  where  every  step  was 

a  pain. 

Gone  was  the  joy  of  our  faces,  grim  And  haggard 

and  pale; 
The  heedless  mirth  of  the  shipboard  was  changed 

to  the  care  of  the  trail. 
We  flung  ourselves  in  the  struggle,   packing  our 

grub  in  relays, 
Step  by  step  to  the  summit  in  the  bale  of  the  winter 

days. 

Floundering  deep  in  the  sump-holfes,  stumbling  out 

again; 
Crying  with  cold  and  weakness,  crazy  with  fear  and 

pain. 

107 


THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY-EIGHT 

Then  from  the  depths  of  our  travail,  ere  our  spirits 

were  broke, 
Grim,  tenacious  and  savage,  the  lust  of  the  trail 

awoke. 


"Klondike  or  bust!"  rang  the  slogan;  every  man 

for  his  own. 
Oh,  how  we  flogged  the  horses,  staggering  skin  and 

bone! 
Oh,  how  we  cursed  their  weakness,  anguish  they 

could  not  tell, 
Breaking  their  hearts  in  our  passion,  lashing  them 

on  till  they  fell! 

For  grub  meant  gold  to  our  thinking,  and  all  that 
could  walk  must  pack; 

The  sheep  for  the  shambles  stumbled,  each  with  a 
load  on  its  back; 

And  even  the  swine  were  burdened,  and  grunted 
and  squealed  and  rolled. 

And  men  went  mad  in  the  moment,  huskily  clam- 
oring "Gold!" 

Oh,  we  were  brutes  and  devils,  goaded  by  lust  and 

fear! 
Our  eyes  were  strained  to  the  summit;  the  weak* 

lings  dropped  to  the  rear, 

io8 


THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY-EIGHT 

Falling  in   heaps  by  the  trail-side,  heart-broken, 

limp  and  wan; 
But  the  gaps  closed  up  in  an  instant,  and  heedles'^ 

the  chain  went  on. 

Never  will  I  forget  it,  there  on  the  mountain  face, 

Antlike,  men  with  their  burdens,  clinging  in  icy 
space ; 

Dogged,  determined  and  dauntless,  cruel  and  cal- 
lous and  cold, 

Cursing,  blaspheming,  reviling,  and  ever  that  battle- 
cry— "Gold!" 

Thus  toiled  we,  the  army  of  fortune,  in  hunger  and 

hope  and  despair, 
Till  glacier,    mountain  and   forest  vanished,  and, 

radiantly  fair. 
There  at  our  feet  lay  Lake  Bennett,  and  down  to 

its  welcome  we  ran: 
The  trail  of  the  land  was  over,  the  trail  of  the  water 

began. 

III. 

We  built  our  boats  and  we  launched  them.     Never 

has  been  such  a  fleet; 
A  packing-case  for  a  bottom,  a  mackinaw  for  a  sheet. 
Shapeless,   grotesque,   lopsided,   flimsy,   makeshift 

and  crude. 
Each  man  after  his  fashion  builded  as  best  he  could 

109 


THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY-EIGHT 

Each  man  worked  like  a  demon,  as  prow  to  ruddef 

we  raced; 
The  winds  of  the  Wild  cried  "Hurry!"  the  voice  of 

the  waters,  "Haste!" 
We  hated   those  driving  before  us;    we  dreaded 

those  pressing  behind; 
We  cursed  the  slow  current  that  bore  us;  we  prayed 

to  the  God  of  the  wind. 


Spring!  and  the  hillsides  flourished,  vivid  in  jew- 
elled green; 

Spring!  and  our  hearts'  blood  nourished  envy  and 
hatred  and  spleen. 

Little  cared  we  for  the  Spring-birth;  much  cared 
we  to  get  on — 

Stake  in  the  Great  White  Channel,  stake  ere  the 
best  be  gone. 


The  greed  of  the  gold  possessed  us;  pity  and  love 

were  forgot; 
Covetous  visions  obsessed  us;  brother  with  brother 

fought. 
Partner  with  partner  wrangled,  each  one  claiming 

his  due; 
Wrangled  and  halved  their  outfits,  sawing  their 

boats  in  two. 

XIO 


THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY-EIGHT 

Thuswise    we    voyaged     Lake    Bennett,    Tagish, 

then  Windy  Arm, 
Sinister,  savage  and  baleful,  boding  us  hate   and 

harm. 
Many  a  scow  was  shattered    there  on   that   iron 

shore ; 
Many  a  heart  was  broken  "Straining  at  sweep  and 

oar. 


We  roused  Lake  Marsh  with  a  chorus,  we  drifted 
many  a  mile; 

There  was  the  canyon  before  us — cave-like  its 
dark  defile; 

The  shores  swept  faster  and  faster;  the  river  nar- 
rowed to  wrath; 

Waters  that  hissed  disaster  reared  upright  in  our 
path. 


Beneath  us  the  green  tumult  churning,  above  us 
the  cavernous  gloom; 

Around  us,  swift  twisting  and  turning,  the  black, 
sullen  walis  of  a  tomb. 

We  spun  like  a  chip  in  a  mill-race;  our  hearts  ham- 
mered under  the  test; 

Then — oh,  the  relief  on  each  chill  face! — we  soared 
into  sunlight  and  rest. 

Ill 


THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY-EIGHT 

Hand  sought  for  hand  on  the  instant.     Cried  we, 

"Our  troubles  are  o'er!" 
Then,  like  a  rumble  of  thunder,  heard  we  a  canorous 

roar. 
Leaping  and  boiling  and  seething,  saw  we  a  cauldron 

afume; 
There  was  the  rage  --^f  the  rapids,  there  was  the 

menace  of  doom. 


The  river  springs  like  a  racer,  sweeps  through  a 

gash  in  the  rock; 
Buts  at  the  boulder-ribbed  bottom,  staggers  and 

rears  at  the  shock; 
Leaps  like  a  terrified  monster,  writhes  in  its  fury 

and  pain; 
Then  with  the  crash  of  a  demon  springs  to  the 

onset  again. 


Dared  we  that  ravening  terror;  heard  we  its  din 

in  our  ears; 
Called  on  the  Gods  of  our  fathers,  juggled  forlorn 

with  our  fears; 
Sank  to  our  waists  in  its  fury,  tossed  to  the  sky 

like  a  fleece; 
Then,  when  our  dread  was  the  greatest,  crashed 

into  safety  and  peace. 

112 


THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY-EIGHT 

But  what  of  the  others  that  followed,  losing  their 

boats  by  the  score? 
Well  could  we  see  them  and  hear  them,  strung 

down  that  desolate  shore. 
What  of  the  poor  souls  that  perished?     Little  of 

them  shall  be  said — 
On  to  the  Golden  Valley,  pause  not  to  bury  the 

dead. 


Then  there  were  days  of  drifting,  breezes  soft  as  a 

sigh; 
Nigjfit  trailed  her  robe  of  jewels  over  the  floor  of 

the  sky. 
The  moonlit  stream  was  a  python,  silver,  sinuous, 

vast, 
That  writhed  on  a  shroud  of  velvet — well,  it  was 

done  at  last. 


There  were  the  tents  of  Dawson,  there  the  scar  of 

the  slide; 
Swiftly  we  poled  o'er  the  shallows,   swiftly   leapt 

o'er  the  side. 
Fires  fringed  the  mouth  of  Bonanza;  sunset  gilded 

the  dome; 
The  test  of  the  trail  was  over — thank  God,  thank 

God:  we  were  Home! 

113 


THE  BALLAD  OF  GUM-BOOT  BEN 

He  was  an  old  prospector  with  a  vision  bleared  and 

dim. 
He  asked  me  for  a  grubstake,  and  the  same  I  gave 

to  him. 
He  hinted  of  a  hidden  trove,  and  when  I  made  so 

bold 
To  question  his  veracity,  this  is  the  tale  he  told. 

"I   do  not  seek  the  copper  streak,   nor  yet  the 

yellow  dust; 
I  am  not  fain  for  sake  of  gain  to  irk  the  frozen 

crust ; 
Let  fellows  gross  find  gilded  dross,  far  other  is  my 

mark ; 
Oh,  gentle  youth,  this  is  the  truth — I  go  to  seek 

the  Ark. 

"I   prospected  the  Pelly  bed,   I    prospected    the 

White; 
The  Nordenscold  for  love  of  gold  I  piked  from 

morn  till  night; 

114 


THE  BALLAD  OF  GUM-BOOT  BEN 

Afar  and  near  for  many  a  year  I   led  the  wild 

stampede, 
Until  I  guessed  that  all  my  quest  was  vanity  and 

greed. 


"Then  came  I  to  a  land  I  knew  no  man  had  ever 

seen, 
A  haggard  land,  forlornly  spanned  by  mountains 

lank  and  lean; 
The  nitchies  said  'twas  full  of  dread,  of  smoke  and 

fiery  breath. 
And  no  man  dare  put  foot  in  there  for  fear  of  pain 

and  death. 


"But  I  was  made  all  unafraid,  so,  careless  and  alone, 
Day  after  day  I   made  my  way  into  that  land 

unknown; 
Night  after  night  by  camp-fire  light  I  crouched  in 

lonely  thought; 
Oh,  gentle  youth,  this  is  the  truth — I  knew  not 

what  I  sought. 


"I  rose  at  dawn;  I  wandered  on.    'Tis  somewhat 

fine  and  grand 
To  be  alone  and   hold  your  own  in  God's  vast 

awesome  land; 

115 


THE  BALLAD  OF  GUM-BOOT  BEN 

Come  woe  or  weal,   'tis  fine   to   feel   a   hundred 

miles  between 
The  trails  you  dare  and  pathways  where  the  feet 

of  men  have  been. 

"And  so  it  fell  on  me  a  spell  of  wander-lust  was 

cast. 
The   land   was   still   and   strange   and   chill,    and 

cavernous  and  vast; 
And  sad  and  dead,  and  dull  as  lead,  the  valleys 

sought  the  snows; 
And  far  and  wide  on  every  side  the  ashen  peaks* 

arose. 

"The  moon  was  like  a  silent  spike  that  pierced 

the  sky  right  through ; 
The  small  stars  popped  and  winked  and  hopped 

in  vastitudes  of  blue; 
And  unto  me  for  company  came  creatures  of  the 

shade. 
And  formed  in  rings  and  whispered  things  that 

made  me  half  afraid. 

"And  strange  though  be,  'twas  borne  on  me  that 

land  had  lived  of  old. 
And  men  had  crept  and  slain  and  slept  where  now 

they  toiled  for  gold ; 

Ii6 


THE  BALLAD  OF  GUMBOOT  BEN 

Through    jungles    dim    the    mammoth    grim    had 

sought  the  oozy  fen, 
And  on  his  track,  all  bent  of  back,  had  crawled  the 

hairy  men. 

"And  furthermore,  strange  deeds  of  yore  in  this 

dead  place  were  done. 
They  haunted  me,  as  wild  and  free  I  roamed  from 

sun  to  sun; 
Until  I  came  where  sudden  flame  uplit  a  terraced 

height, 
A  regnant  peak  that  seemed  to  seek  the  coronal 

of  night. 

•'I  scaled  the  peak;    my  heart  was  weak,  yet  on 

and  on  I  pressed. 
Skyward   I   strained   until   I   gained   its    dazzling 

silver  crest; 
And  there  I  found,  with  all  around  a  world  supine 

and  stark, 
Swept  clean  of  snow,  a  flat  plateau,  and  on  it 

lay — the  Ark. 

**  Yes,  there,  I  knew,  by  two  and  two  the  beasts  did 

disembark. 
And  so  in  haste  I  ran  and  traced  in  letters  on  the 

Ark 

117 


THE  BALLAD  OF  GUM-BOOT  BEN 

My  human  name — Ben  Smith's   the  same.     And 

now  I  want  to  float 
A  syndicate  to  haul  and  freight  to  town  that  noble 

boat." 


I  met  him  later  in  a  bar  and  made  a  gay  remark 
Anent  an  ancient  miner  and  an  option  on  the  Ark. 
He  gazed  at  me  reproachfidly,  as  only  topers  can; 
But  what  he  said  I  can't  repeat — he  was  a  bad  old 
man. 


CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE 

In  the  little  Crimson   Manual  it's  written  plain 

and  clear 
That  who  would  wear  the  scarlet  coat  shall  say 

good-bye  to  fear; 
Shall  be  a  guardian  of  the  right,  a  sleuth-hound  of 

the  trail — 
In  the  little  Crimson  Manual  there's  no  such  word 

as  "fail"— 
Shall  follow  on  though  heavens  fall,  or  hell's  top- 
turrets  freeze. 
Half  round  the  world,  if  need  there  be,  on  bleeding 

hands  and  knees. 
It's  duty,  duty,  first  and  last,  the  Crimson  Manual 

saith ; 
The  Scarlet    Rider   makes  reply:  "It's  duty — to 

the  death." 
And  so  they  sweep  the  solitudes,  free  men  from  all 

the  earth ; 
And  so  they  sentinel  the  woods,  the  wilds  that 

know  their  worth; 
And  so  they  scour  the  startled  plains  and  mock 

at  hurt  and  pain, 


CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE 

And  read  their  Crimson  Manual,  and  find  their 

duty  plain. 
Knights    of   the   lists   of    unrenown,   born  of   the 

frontier's  need, 
Disdainful  of  the  spoken  word,   exultant  in  the 

deed; 
Unconscious  heroes  of  the  waste,   proud  players 

of  the  game. 
Props  of  the  power  behind  the  throne,  upholders 

of  the  name: 
For  thus  the  Great  White  Chief  hath  said,  "In 

all  my  lands  be  peace," 
And  to  maintain  his  word  he  gave  his  West  the 

Scarlet  Police. 

Livid-lipped  was  the  valley,  still  as  the  grave  of 
God; 
Misty  shadows  of  mountain  thinned  into  mists 
of  cloud ; 
Corpselike  and  stark  was  the  land,  with  a  quiet 
that  crushed  and  awed, 
And  the  stars  of  the  weird  sub-arctic  glimmered 
over  its  shroud. 

Deep  in  the  trench  of  the  valley  two  men  stationed 
the  Post, 
Seymour  and  Clancy  the  reckless,   fresh  from 
the  long  patrol; 

120 


CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE 

Seymour,  the  sergeant,  and  Clancy — Clancy  who 
made  his  boast 
He  could  cinch   like  a  bronco  the  Northland, 
and  cling  to  the  prongs  of  the  Pole. 

Two  lone  men  on  detachment,  standing  for  law 
on  the  trail; 
Undismayed    in    the    vastness,    wise    with    the 
wisdom  of  old — 
Out  of  the  night  hailed  a  half-breed  telling  a  pitiful 
tale, 
"White  man  starving  and  crazy  on  the  banks 
of  the  Nordenscold." 

Up  sprang  the  red-haired  Clancy,  lean  and  eager 
of  eye; 
Loaded  the  long  toboggan,  strapped  each  dog 
at  its  post; 
Whirled  his  lash  at  the  leader;  then,  with  a  whoop 
and  a  cry, 
Into  the  Great  White  Silence  faded   away  like 
a  ghost. 

The  clouds  were  a  misty  shadow,  the  hills  were 
a  shadowy  mist; 
Sunless,  voiceless  and  pulseless,  the  day  was  a 
dream  of  woe; 

121 


CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE 

Through  the  ice-rifts  the  river  smoked  and  bubbled 
and  hissed; 
Behind  was  a  trail  fresh  broken,  in  front  the  un- 
trodden snow. 

Ahead  of  the  dogs  ploughed  Clancy,  haloed  by 
steaming  breath; 
Through  peril  of  open  water,  through  ache  of 
insensate  cold; 
Up  rivers  wantonly  winding  in  a  land  affianced 
to  death, 
Till  he  came  to  a  cowering  cabin  on  the  banks 
of  the  Nordenscold. 

Then  Clancy  loosed  his  revolver,  and  he  strode 
through  the  open  door; 
And  there  was  the  man  he  sought  for,  crouching 
beside  the  fire; 
The  hair  of  his  beard  was  singeing,  the  frost  on  his 
back  was  hoar, 
And  ever  he  crooned  and  chanted  as  if  he  never 
would  tire: — 

*'/  panned  and  I  panned  in  the  shiny  sand,  and  1 

sniped  on  the  river  bar; 
But   I  know,  I   know,  that   it's  down  below   that 

the  golden  treasures  are; 

122 


CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE 

So  ril  wait  and  wait  till  the  floods  abate,  and  Fll 

sink  a  shaft  once  more, 
And  rd  like  to  bet  that  I'll  go  home  yet  with  a 

brass  band  playing  before." 

He  was  nigh  as  thin  as  a  sliver,  and  he  whined  like 
a  Moose-hide  cur; 
So  Clancy  clothed  him  and  nursed  him  as  a 
mother  nurses  a  child; 
Lifted  him  on  the  toboggan,  wrapped  him  in  robes 
of  fur, 
Then  with  the  dogs  sore  straining  started   to 
face  the  Wild. 

Said  the  Wild,  "I  will  crush  this  Clancy,  so  fearless 
and  insolent; 
For  him  will  I   loose  my  fury,  and  blind  and 
buffet  and  beat; 
Pile  up  my  snows  to  stay  him;    then  when  his 
strength  is  spent, 
Leap  on  him  from  my  ambush  and  crush  him 
under  my  feet. 

"Him  will  I  ring  with  my  silence,  compass  him 
with  my  cold; 
Closer   and   closer   clutch   him   unto   mine   icv 
breast; 

12-; 


CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE 

Buffet  him  with  my  blizzards,  deep  in  my  snows 
enfold, 
Claiming    his    life    as    my    tribute,    giving    my 
wolves  the  rest." 

Clancy  crawled  through   the  vastness;    o'er  him 
the  hate  of  the  Wild ; 
Full  on  his  face  fell  the  blizzard;    cheering  his 
huskies  he  ran ; 
Fighting,    fierce-hearted   and   tireless,   snows  that 
drifted  and  piled, 
With    ever   and    ever   behind   him   singing   the 
crazy  man. 

*'Sing  hey,  sing  ho,  for  the  ice  and  snow. 

And  a  heart  that's  ever  merry; 
Let  us  trim  and  square  with  a  lover^s  care 

{For  why  should  a  man  be  sorry  ?) 
A  grave  deep,  deep,  with  the  moon  a-peep, 

A  grave  in  the  frozen  mould. 
Sing  hey,  sing  ho,  for  the  winds  that  blow. 
And  a  grave  deep  down  in  the  ice  and  snow, 

A  grave  in  the  land  of  gold." 

Day  after  day  of  darkness,  the  whirl  of  the  seeth- 
ing snows; 
Day  after  day  of  blindness,  the  swoop  of  the 
stinging  blast; 

124 


CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE 

On  through  a  blur  of  fury  the  swing  of  staggering 
blows ; 
On  through  a  world  of  turmoil,  empty,  inane 
and  vast. 


Night   with   its   writhing  storm-whirl,  night  des- 
pairingly black; 
Night  with  its  hours  of  terror,  numb  and  end' 
lessly  long; 
Night  with  its  weary  waiting,  fighting  the  shadows 
back, 
And   ever  the   crouching   madman  singing  his 
crazy  song. 

Cold  with  its  creeping  terror,  cold  with  its  sudden 
clinch; 
Cold  so  utter  you  wonder  if  'twill  ever  again  be 
warm; 
Clancy  grinned  as  he  shuddered,  "Surely  it  isn't 
a  cinch 
Being  wet-nurse  to  a  looney  in  the  teeth  of  an 
arctic  storm." 

The  blizzard  pass«?d  and  the  dawn  broke,  knife- 
edged  and  Crystal  clear; 
The  sky  was  a  blue-domed   iceberg,   sunshine 
outlawed  away; 

125 


CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE 

Ever  by  snowslide  and  ice-rip  haunted  and  hovered 
the  Fear; 
Ever  the  Wild  malignant  poised  and  panted  to 
slay. 

The  lead-dog  freezes  in  harness — cut  him  out  of 
the  team! 
The    lung   of   the    wheel-dog's    bleeding — shoot 
him  and  let  him  lie! 
On  and  on  with  the  others — lash  them  until  they 
scream ! 
"Pull  for  your  lives,  you  devils!     On!     To  halt 
is  to  die." 

There  in  the  frozen  vastness  Clancy  fought  with 
his  foes; 
The  ache  of  the  stiffened  fingers,  the  cut  of  the 
snowshoe  thong; 
Cheeks  black-raw  through  the  hood-flap,  eyes  that 
tingled  and  closed, 
And  ever  to  urge  and  cheer  him  quavered  the 
madman's  song. 

Colder  it  grew  and  colder,  till  the  last  heat  left  the 
earth, 
And  there  in  the  great  stark  stillness  the  bale 
fires  glinted  and  gleamed, 

126 


CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE 

And  the  Wild  all  around  exulted  and  shook  with 
a  devilish  mirth, 
And  life  was  far  and  forgotten,  the  ghost  of  a 
joy  once  dreamed. 

Death!     And  one  who  defied  it,   a  man  of  the 
Mounted  Police; 
Fought  it  there  to  a  standstill  long  after  hope 
was  gone; 
Grinned  through  his  bitter  anguish,  fought  with- 
out let  or  cease, 
Suffering,  straining,  striving,  stumbling,  strug- 
gling on. 

Till  the  dogs  lay  down  in  their  traces,  and  rose  and 
staggered  and  fell; 
Till  the  eyes  of  him  dimmed  with  shadows,  and 
the  trail  was  so  hard  to  see; 
Till   the   Wild   howled   out   triumphant,   and   the 
world  was  a  frozen  hell — 
Then  said  Constable  Clancy:    "I  guess  that  it's 
up  to  me." 

Far  down  the  trail  they  saw  him,  and  his  hands 
they  were  blanched  like  bone; 
His  face  was  a  blackened  horror,  from  his  eye- 
lids the  salt  rheum  ran; 

127 


CLANCY  OF  THE  MOUNTED  POLICE 

His  feet  he  was  lifting  strangely,  as  if  they  were 
made  of  stone, 
But  safe  in  his  arms  and   sleeping  he  carried 
the  crazy  man. 

So  Clancy  got  into  Barracks,  and  the  boys  made 
rather  a  scene; 
And  the  O.  C.  called  him  a  hero,  and  was  nice 
as  a  man  could  be; 
But  Clancy  gazed  down  his  trousers  at  the  place 
where  his  toes  had  been, 
And  then  he  howled  like  a  husky,  and   sang  in 
a  shaky  key: 

**  When  I  go  back  to  the  old  love  that's  true  to  the 

finger-tips, 
ril  say:   'Here's  bushels  of  gold,  love,'  and  I'll  kiss 

my  girl  on  the  lips; 
*lt's  yours  to  have  and  to  hold,  love.'     It's  the  proud, 

proud  boy  I'll  be. 
When  I  go  back  to  the  old  love  that's  waited  so  long 

for  me.'*. 


128 


LOST 

"Black  is  the  sky,  hut  the  land  is  white-^ 
{0  the  wind,  the  snow  and  the  storm  1) — 

Father,  where  is  our  boy  to-night? 
Pray  to  God  he  is  safe  and  warm.** 

"  Mother,  mother,  why  should  you  fear? 

Safe  is  he,  and  the  Arctic  moon 
Over  his  cabin  shines  so  clear — 

Rest  and  sleep,  Hwill  be  morning  soon.** 

"It's   getting   dark   awful   sudden.     Say,    this   is 
mighty  queer! 
Where  in  the  world  have  I   got  to?     It's  still 
and  black  as  a  tomb. 
I  reckoned  the  camp  was  yonder,  I  figured  the 
trail  was  here — 
Nothing!    Just  draw  and  valley  packed  with 
quiet  and  gloom; 

129 


LOST 

Snow  that  comes  down  like  feathers,   thick  and 

gobby  and  gray; 
Night  that  looks  spiteful  ugly — seems  that  I've 

lost  my  way. 

"The  cold's  got  an  edge  like  a  jackknife — it  must 

be  forty  below; 
Leastways  that's  what  it  seems  like — it  cuts  so 

fierce  to  the  bone. 
The  wind's  getting  real  ferocious;  it's  heaving  and 

whirling  the  snow; 
It  shrieks  with  a  howl  of  fury,  it  dies  away  to 

a  moan; 
Its  arms  sweep  round  like  a  banshee's,  swift  and 

icily  white. 
And  buffet  and  blind   and   beat  me.      Lord!  it's 

a  hell  of  a  night. 

"I'm  all  tangled  up  in  a  blizzard.     There's  only 

one  thing  to  do — 
Keep  on  moving  and  moving;    it's  death,  it's 

death  if  I  rest. 
Oh,  God!    if  I  see  the  morning,  if  only  I  struggle 

through, 
I'll  say  the  prayers  I've  forgotten  since  I  lay  on 

my  mother's  breast. 
I  seem  going  round  in  a  circle ;  maybe  the  camp  is 

near, 

130 


LOST 

Say!    did  someoody  holler?     Was  it  a  light  1 


sawr 
Or  was  it  only  a  notion?     I'll  shout,  and  maybe 
they'll  hear — 
No!    the  wind  only  drowns  me — shout  till  my 
throat  is  raw. 

"The  boys  are  all  round  the  camp-fire  wondering 
when  I'll  be  back. 
They'll  soon   be  starting  to  seek  me;    they'll 
scarcely  wait  for  the  light. 
What  will  they  find,  I  wonder,  when  they  come  to 
the  end  of  my  track — 
A  hand  stuck  out  of  a  snowdrift,  frozen  and 
stiff  and  white. 
That's  what  they'll  strike,  I  reckon;    that's  how 
they'll  find  their  pard, 
A  pie-faced  corpse  in  a  snowbank — curse  you, 
don't  be  a  fool! 
Play  the  game  to  the  finish ;  bet  on  your  very  last 
card; 
Nerve  yourself  for  the  struggle.    Oh,  you  coward, 
keep  cool! 

"Vm  going  to  lick  this  blizzard;   I'm  going  to  live 
the  night 
It  can't  down  me  with  its  bluster — I'm  not  the 
kind  to  be  beat. 

131 


LOST 

On  hands  and  knees  will  I  buck   it;    with  every 
breath  will  I  fight; 
It's  life,  it's  life  that  I  fight  for — never  it  seemed 
so  sweet. 
I   know  that  my  face  is  frozen;    my  hands  are 
numblike  and  dead; 
But  oh,  my  feet  keep  a-moving,  heavy  and  hard 
and  slow; 
They're  trying  to  kill  me,  kill  me,  the  night  that's 
black  overhead. 
The  wind  that  cuts  like  a  razor,  the  whipcord 
lash  of  the  snow. 
Keep  a-moving,   a-moving;  don't,  don't  stumble, 
you  fool! 
Curse   this   snow  that's    a-piling    a-purpose    to 
block  my  way. 
It's  heavy  as  gold  in  the  rocker,  it's  white  and 
fleecy  as  wool; 
It's  soft  as  a  bed  of  feathers,  it's  warm  as  a 
stack  of  hay. 
Curse  on  my  feet  that  slip  so,  my    poor    tired, 
stumbling  feet — 
I  guess  they're  a  job  for  the  surgeon,  they  feel 
so  queerlike  to  lift — 
I'll  rest  them  just  for  a  moment — oh,  but  to  rest 
is  sweet! 
The  awful  wind  cannot  get  me,  deep,  deep  down 
in  the  drift." 


13a 


LOST 

"  Father,  a  hitter  cry  I  heard, 

Out  of  the  night  so  dark  and  wild. 

Why  is  my  heart  so  strangely  stirred? 
'Twas  like  the  voice  of  our  erring  child** 

"  Mother,  mother,  you  only  heard 
A  waterfowl  in  the  locked  lagoon — 

Out  of  the  night  a  wounded  bird — ■ 

Rest  and  sleep,  'twill  be  morning  soon." 

Who  is  it  talks  of  sleeping?    I'll  swear  that  some' 
body  shook 
Me  hard  by  the  arm  for  a  moment,  but  how  on 
earth  could  it  be? 
See  how  my  feet  are  moving — awfully  funny  they 
look — 
Moving  as  if  they  belonged  to  a  someone  that 
wasn't  me. 
The  wind  down  the  night's  long  alley  bowls  me 
down  like  a  pin; 
I  stagger  and  fall  and  stagger,  crawl  arm-deep 
in  the  snow. 
Beaten  back  to  my  corner,  how  can  I  hope  to  win? 
And  there  is  the  blizzard  waiting  to  give  me  the 
knockout  blow. 

Oh,  I'm  so  warm  and  sleepy!  No  more  hunger  and 
pain. 
Just  to  rest  for  a  moment;   was  ever  rest  such 
a  joy? 

133 


LOST 

Ha!    what    was    that?     I'll   swear   it,    somebody 
shook  me  again; 
Somebody  seemed    to   whisper:    "Fight  to  the 
last,  my  boy." 
Fight!     That's   right,    I   must   struggle.     I    know 
that  to  rest  means  death; 
Death,  but  then  what  does  death  mean? — ease 
from  a  world  of  strife. 
Life  has  been  none  too  pleasant;    yet  with   my 
failing  breath 
Still  and  still  must  I  struggle,  fight  for  the  gift 
of  life. 


Seems  that  I  must  be  dreaming!    Here  is  the  old 
home  trail; 
Yonder  a  light  is  gleaming;  oh,  I  know  it  so  well! 
The  air  is  scented  with  clover;   the  cattle  wait  by 
the  rail; 
Father  is  through  with  the  milking;  there  goes 
the  supper-bell. 


Mother,  your  boy  is  crying,  out  in  the  night  and 
cold; 
Let  me  in  and  forgive   me,  I'll  never  be   bad 
any  more: 

134 


LOST 

rm,  oh,  so  sick  and  so  sorry:  please,  dear  mother, 
don't  scold — 
It's  just  your  boy,  and  he  wants  you.     .     .     . 
Mother,  open  the  door.     .     .     . 

"  Father,  father,  I  saw  a  face 
Pressed  just  now  to  the  window-panel 

Oh,  it  gazed  for  a  moment's  space, 

Wild  and  wan,  and  was  gone  again  I" 

*^  Mother,  mother,  you  saw  the  snow 
Drifted  down  from  the  maple  tree 

{Oh,  the  wind  that  is  sobbing  so! 
Weary  and  worn  and  old  are  we) — 

Only  the  snow  and  a  wounded  loon — 

Rest  and  sleep,  'twill  be  morning  soon** 


<35 


L'ENVOI 

We  talked  of  yesteryears,  of  trails  and  treasitre. 

Of  men  who  played  the  game  and  lost  or  won; 
Of  mad  stampedes,  of  toil  beyotid  all  measure, 

Of  camp-jire  comfort  when  the  day  was  done. 
We  talked  of  sullen  nights  by  moon-dogs  haunted^ 

Of  bird  and  beast  and  tree,  of  rod  and  gun; 
Of  boat  and  tent,  of  hunting-trip  enchanted 

Beneath  the  wonder  of  the  midnight  sun; 
Of  bloody-footed  dogs  that  gnawed  the  traces, 

Of  prisoned  seas,  wind-lashed  and  winter -lockedi 
The  ice-gray  dawn  was  pale  upon  our  faces, 

Yet  still  we  filled  the  cup  and  still  we  talked. 

The  city  street  was  dimmed.     We  saw  the  glitter 
Of  moon-picked  brilliants  on  the  virgin  snow, 

A  fid  down  the  drifted  canyon  heard  the  bitter, 
Relentless  slogan  of  the  winds  of  woe. 

The  city  was  forgot,  and,  parka-skirted. 

We  trod  that  leagueless  land  that  once  we  knew; 

136 


L'ENVOI 

We  saw  stream  past,  down  valleys  glacier-girted, 
The  wolf-worn  legions  of  the  caribou. 

We  smoked  our  pipes,  o'er  scenes  of  triumph  dwelling; 
Of  deeds  of  daring,  dire  defeats,  we  talked; 

And  other  tales  that  lost  not  in  the  telling, 
Ere  to  our  beds  uncertainly  we  walked. 

And  so,  dear  friends,  in  gentler  valleys  roaming, 

Perhaps,  when  on  my  printed  page  you  look. 
Your  fancies  by  the  firelight  may  go  homing 

To  that  lone  land  that  haply  you  forsook. 
And  if  perchance  you  hear  the  silence  calling, 

The  frozen  music  of  star-yearning  heights. 
Or,  dreaming,  see  the  seines  of  silver  trawling 

Across  the  sky's  abyss  on  vasty  nights. 
You  may  recall  that  sweep  of  savage  splendor. 

That  land  that  measures  each  man  at  his  worth, 
And  feel  in  memory,  half  fierce,  half  tender. 

The  brotherhood  of  men  that  know  the  North. 


137 


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